Aliquippa by Hannah Kern YA / New adult crossover novel

• Opening scene  - Introduces protagonist, setting, tone, and core wounds. 

At any given moment at least twenty-two thousand particles float in the air around you. On the second Monday in April, 1998, these translucent menaces encircled Cap and I like vultures, shoulder's back and perched to dive. All day it felt like the flowering trees of spring erupted at our fingertips, coy pinks pushing past woebegone whites. We ran in circles playing zombies. But when dusk descended those menaces materialized, surrounding us in a thousand motley shapes. I put my hands in the air. "We surrender!" Cap stared and put his pointer finger up (Boink!). I don’t know if he saw the particles or just happened to poke the air at the right time. That’s one of the many rare things about Cap: he’s semi-clairvoyant. Like, he’s tapped into some other realm, but only partially. He still picks his nose, for example, definitely an our realm sort of thing. 

The first time I noticed the particles I sat on the foot of Cap’s bed. His electric blue carpet matched the flawless sky and I felt as though the bits formed a gateway of sorts. Portal, if you will. I’m a bit obsessed with them. I stood and stuck my head through the ring like a goose. Expecting to disappear; or, at the very least, pretending to expect. I should say, at the easily-forgotten age of eleven my ability to believe in anything like magic already bordered non-existent. Often these particles vanish as quickly as they appear. They scattered especially quickly when our mom coughed (Mff, ack!). Quite a few times I caught sight of them in a passing wind, dangling in the kitchen or soaring through with the sun. But that hack filled our house like a heavy perfume, vanquishing everything (Mff! Mff! ack!). Sometimes, though, these little guys stick around—heaving themselves across that sound you hear when all else is silent. Needless to say, I didn’t disappear into a magical realm, I just stood there with my neck out, relieved no one was there to see it. But the particles were never menacing until that Monday evening. Whatever happens on a Monday night?  Even our old brick house felt haunted. 

Mostly because it was hard not to think of her. That’s probably what we went there to do. Think of her, pay respects, as they say, like respect is a form of currency you can offload. I stared up at her old window as Cap ran circles around me. For what felt like hours into days Caroline laid near completely still in her bedroom. It was as though time didn’t exist. With, at intervals, of course, that relentless cough. When I dared to peek in her bedroom she almost always rested on her side, staring vacantly at the green and white swirling wallpaper. It was easy to imagine her still there. Have you ever seen the Andrew Wyeth painting, Day Dream? A woman lies still in an almost entirely white room. She is sprawled across a bed, naked. You can’t tell if she is sleeping or dreaming. A sheer sheet shelters her from the rest of the room and, in this cocoon, she passes time. Anyway, that was my mom. I thought perhaps her occupation was the same as this beautiful woman in this beautiful painting.