Like Mandarin (13 page)

“Staggering all over the place,” Paige continued. She leaned across the table and thumped the white rock on my chart. “Like you were on
drugs
.”

I glared at her. “Give me a break, Paige.”

She held up her hands, the picture of innocence. “Don’t be pissed off at
me
. It’s only what everybody’s saying.”

“Well, everybody’s full of shit.”

“You’re even starting to talk like her! Next you’ll be wanting to look like her too. And after that, well …” She tried to wink suggestively, but her other eye closed too. “Who knows what you’ll do next?”

“Let’s just get to work,” I said through gritted teeth.

“You look like you’re doing just fine on your own,” Paige said. “You and the school faggot.”

Davey’s cheeks turned magenta.

I squeezed the rock so hard my knucklebones showed through my skin. How good it would feel to fling it right into Paige’s self-satisfied face. But then I’d get kicked out of class.

Instead, I did something I hadn’t done for ages: I raised my hand.

“Mrs. Mack?” I said, loud enough for the entire class to hear. “Paige won’t do any work. She’s just sitting here, distracting us.”

I knew my good grades would endorse my integrity. And at that moment, Paige was sitting with her feet up on another chair. Hurriedly, she dropped them to the floor.

Mrs. Mack glared at her. “Why don’t you come up to my desk, Miss Shelmerdine,” she said, “and do the experiment with me?”

Paige, speechless for once, trudged to the front of the room and sat.

I glanced at Davey again. He kept blinking and blinking, filling the boxes on the identification chart with his tiny penmanship, avoiding my gaze. As if he didn’t know what to make of this new Grace Carpenter. Well, neither did I.

As soon as Mandarin shut us inside her bedroom, I sensed something was wrong. The way she didn’t quite look me in the eye. The way she fell backward onto her bed, as if she’d succumbed to a spell of overpowering fatigue. The possible layers in her opening lines: “Let’s get this project over with,” she said. “So we don’t have it between us.”

Feeling uncertain, I sat cross-legged on her ugly old-man carpet instead of joining her on the bed. I cleared my throat.

“Well, we did this experiment on the hardness of rocks in science today,” I began. “I was thinking you could tie them into your service project somehow. Maybe we could contact some geologists, or something, and put together some sort of a display—”

“Rocks depress me.”

I tried not to feel insulted. “We could find someone who studies paleontology. Or archaeology.”

“Ology ology ology.” Mandarin yawned and stretched, like a cat in a puddle of sun. “It’s all about dead things. What’s with you and the nonliving? What about the people?”

“I thought you hated people.”

“Bullshit. I love people. What do you think I am, a sociopath? I’d never have said that.”

I cleared my throat, deciding not to contradict her. I hadn’t really liked the idea of using rocks, anyway—I wasn’t about to show anybody my collection. That was my secret. “We could, like, paint something. Something that belongs to an old person. A fence.”

“Like Tom Sawyer?” she mocked.

“We could clean out somebody’s barn.…”

She rolled her eyes.

“Well, what service project did you do other years?”

“Nothing. Got my dad to sign the paper that said I did it. He’ll sign anything, if he’s drunk enough.”

“Why didn’t you do that this year?”

Mandarin shrugged. “They’re on to me.”

I was beginning to get the feeling she was playing with me, batting me around like a mouse between her paws. I tapped my pencil against my knee and let a bit of my frustration slip out. “Well, do you have any ideas?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Whatever’s easy.”

“I thought you wanted to get this over with. You’ve got to help me think of something, just a little.”

“I don’t
got to
do anything.”

“But you said you wanted to graduate.…”

Mandarin rolled onto her side, propping up her head with one arm. All of a sudden, her voice went arctic. “Know what, Grace? You’re fortunate I’m helping you with this project anyways, after what you did.”

“What I did?”

In reply, Mandarin whipped something from underneath her pillow and flung it at me. Dark and glossy, it sliced through the air and landed on the floor by my foot. “Want to explain what that was doing in your bag, Grace? Because it sure ain’t ‘stuff for the service project.’ ”

One of my pamphlets for the All-American Leadership Conference.

She must have stolen it when I wasn’t paying attention. The winds picked up outside the window, and the air inside Mandarin’s room seemed to shift. Ozone, or lack of it. For just a second, my mind seemed to vibrate. I couldn’t pull my eyes from hers. “The conference is just for three weeks,” I said in a small voice. “We can go after—”

“Three weeks,” Mandarin repeated. “Only three weeks! Anything could happen in three weeks. In three weeks I could be dead.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“We all could be dead in three weeks.” I started to babble. “A meteor could fall down and smash us all to pieces. Like the dinosaurs. That’s what happened to them. A stone from space thundered down and changed the weather, and
whoosh!
Wiped them all out.”

Mandarin was still staring at me, but her expression had changed to one of contempt.

“I
swear
I was going to tell you, but I only just found out today! Turns out, Peter Shaw cheated.…”

“I just thought the same things were important to the both of us,” she said. “Hell, I should’ve known better, right? I mean, nobody thinks like me. Nobody else in the world. And you? You were just pretending.”

“I wasn’t pretending, I only forgot—”

“You’re right,” she said loudly, cutting me off. “You should forget about it. We both should.”

I rose to my knees. “Mandarin,
come on
. I don’t even care about the conference. ‘Leadership in the Political Sector’? That doesn’t interest me. I couldn’t care less about the political sector—”

Mandarin slammed her fist into the wall.

I heard the bang, saw the smear of blood where she’d gashed her knuckles. I stumbled away on my weakened knees. It was so sudden, so
violent
. I thought of the stories about Mandarin’s fights. Sophie Brawls, and the scratches on her neck. I knew Mandarin scared people, but until then I’d never felt frightened.

And yet, I felt even more frightened I’d ruined everything between us.

“Mandarin …”

“Just go,” she said quietly, cradling her injured hand. “And close the door behind you.”

So that was it, then. It was over.

I grabbed my tote bag and left without another word, shutting Mandarin’s bedroom door as gently as I could. On my way out of her house, I cupped both my hands over my nose and mouth, as if less oxygen would reduce my chances of bursting into tears.

Then I saw the envelope.

Just part of it, sticking out of the mailbox. I would have overlooked it if I hadn’t noticed the first few letters of Mandarin’s name. Handwritten, in neat blue ink.

Although I was terrified Mandarin might come roaring out behind me, I pulled out the envelope. It felt lopsided, heavier than a letter should. I traced the outline of the triangular object inside, pinched it between my fingertips.

An arrowhead.

I remembered the jar of perfect arrowheads she’d pulled from under her bed. Blue-white chalcedony. Tiger skin obsidian.

Somebody was sending Mandarin arrowheads
.

I looked at the return address. The strange name—Kimanah Paisley—meant nothing to me. Neither did the address: Riverton, WY 82501. Riverton was a few hours south. Home to the Wind River Reservation. More badlands.

And to whomever was sending Mandarin arrowheads.

My throat ached. What were a few weeks of friendship compared to what she’d apparently had with this mystery girl? Mandarin and I had spent barely any time together outside of school. She shot down every personal question I asked. Though I supposed she had good reason to—I’d betrayed her trust, all for three weeks at a stupid conference that was sounding worse by the minute. “Leadership: the Musical”? Really?

I considered taking the envelope. Mandarin had stolen my pamphlet, after all. But instead, I jammed it back in the mailbox and headed for the Tombs.

By Thursday, Momma’s pageant fever was worse than ever, though the tri-county pageant wasn’t until early June. She hadn’t even bothered to get dressed. She bustled around in a baggy satin muumuu covered in a pandemonium of butterflies and flowers against a royal blue background. Her bosom jiggled underneath like smuggled water balloons. It was almost hypnotizing.

Each day, after school, she relegated hordes of menial tasks to me, like gluing rhinestones to Taffeta’s flip-flops for the swimwear competition. I never protested, which Momma found extremely unusual. She must have thought I’d come down with wildwind psychosis, though she never asked what was wrong.

I still hadn’t mentioned my contest win, the papers at the bottom of my tote bag. I couldn’t even think of the conference without my throat burning and my lungs going haywire.

On Tuesday, I’d approached Ms. Ingle after homeroom to tell her I’d have to find another service project. “I’m really sorry,” I said, still feeling guilty about what I’d called her behind her back. “It’s just not going to work out.”

“Has something happened between you and Mandarin?”

I fumbled in my pocket for a stone and found it empty. “Well …”

“Grace, has she done something to you?”

“Done something?”

“You can tell me anything, you know. If Mandarin’s been pressuring you to take part in activities you know you shouldn’t—”

“No!” I almost shouted. “Nothing like that. It’s just that I don’t feel like I’m the best person to tutor Mandarin. I’m just so young, you know? Maybe she’d be better off working with an upperclassman, or at least a real sophomore. Someone like …” I thought quickly. “Like Davey Miller.”

“Davey?”
Ms. Ingle said incredulously.

“Okay, maybe not Davey.”

“Grace, of course you’re a real sophomore. You’re at the top of the class.” She tapped her chin with two fingers. “I think I know what the real problem is. I’m sensing a case of low self-esteem. Is that correct?”

“I don’t think …” I paused. If I denied it, I’d sound big-headed. But I didn’t want to agree, either.

“If so, it’s entirely misplaced. In fact, you have more potential for success than any student I’ve ever taught. There’s plenty you can teach Mandarin. And she wants you to. Remember, she asked for you.”

I didn’t reply, but a sniffle escaped.

“Though if it’s absolutely necessary, I can help you think up a different service project,” Ms. Ingle continued. “Mr. Mason received a new shipment of historic bridge photographs he needs help filing. And I can speak to Mandarin about finding another tutor.”

I thought I’d feel relieved. But once Ms. Ingle said it, I realized what it meant. If she didn’t fight it—and I knew she might—Mandarin would be paired with somebody new.

Somebody older. More experienced.

Somebody unafraid to seize shimmery, windstruck, once-in-a-lifetime opportunities laid out before them.

Somebody who wasn’t me.

“It’s all right,” I heard myself say. “I was just thinking out loud. I’ll still work with her. No problem.” Although I had no idea how, since Mandarin and I weren’t speaking.

Then, as if I weren’t upset enough, Ms. Ingle leaned in close and whispered, “I think your pants are a little too big. Would you like to borrow a belt?”

I’d eaten lunch in my bathroom stall all week.

Now I sat in the kitchen with Momma, hot-gluing tiny fabric flowers to a wooden hoop. I was making a mess of it—losing flowers, dropping flowers, gluing flowers to myself. Momma’s anxiety didn’t help matters. Every year, she seemed to enjoy pageant prep less and less, until the whole enterprise was more a colossal chore than an event she and Taffeta had enrolled in by choice. It was hard to believe her claims that she’d missed pageants terribly in the gap between my last and Taffeta’s first.

I’d never have thought Momma would notice my distress, especially in the midst of her own. Until she placed her hand over mine.

“Grace, dear,” she said, “is anything the matter? You’re not in any … trouble with that Ramey girl, are you?”

“Momma, no!”

“I just meant, are you having a tiff, is all.”

Only Momma would use a word like
tiff
. I balled up my fist underneath her hand. “Everything’s fine,” I lied.

“Okay,” she said hesitantly. She glanced at the mess I was making of the wooden hoop. “Still … maybe you should take a break. Why don’t you head to the store and pick up a gallon of milk?”

I was afraid of running into Mandarin on the street—it would be just my luck—but I couldn’t tell Momma that. She handed me a five-dollar bill. I ripped a flower off my thumb and headed for the door.

I pulled the hood of my sweater over my head and yanked on the strings, leaving myself a little circle to peer through. Then I gathered my tote bag in front of my chest like a padded shield. With my head down, I passed the back door to the grocery store and went around to the front. The ghosts of old-timey letters still decorated the gray brick building:
Drugs, Soda Fountain, Washokey Merchant
.

As I stepped inside, out came Becky Pepper, third-place winner in the All-American Essay Contest. I wondered whether she’d take my place at the leadership conference if I backed out.

I made my way to the dairy section and grabbed a gallon of milk. On my way back, I kept my eyes on the plank floor. If I glanced up, I’d see the trophies. Coyote heads preserved in full snarl, beady-eyed pronghorns, hawks with open beaks. The animals had decorated the grocery store my entire life. But now they made me think of Mandarin.

I’d almost reached the registers when I heard a high-pitched voice: “If it ain’t Grace Carpenter!”

I tried not to cringe.

Polly Bunker had the shiny-pink skin of a pig, though the wiry, pale curls sticking to her skull reminded me of a shorn sheep. Her grin was that of a shark. She wore a frumpy floral dress with a black slip peeking from under the hem.

“Mrs. Bunker,” I said. “You startled me.”

“I startled you!” She inspected me with a frown. “Then you must be skittish, girl, ’cause I never startled anybody in my whole entire life.”

I found that hard to believe. Back when Alexis and I had been friends, Polly Bunker was always materializing in the basement rec room with platters of Jell-O Jigglers and stainless steel bowls of Cheetos. She also used to come to our house unannounced, her chipmunk cheeks practically bursting with gossip.

She hadn’t come over in quite a while, though. I suspected that if Washokey weren’t such a small town, Momma might have defriended her years ago. At least now, after Taffeta’s pageant win, Polly Bunker couldn’t retroactively gloat about Alexis’s in quite the same way.

She latched on to my free arm and dragged me into the produce section. In May, grapefruits were the big sellers. Absentmindedly, I played with one while she tested the firmness of the green grapes.
Pinch, pinch
. I found it mildly depressing that the height of color in Washokey came from the seasonal produce shipped from other states.

“Alexis told me about your essay winning after all,” she said. “I’m so proud of you! I always knew you were a good influence on my Alexis. You’ve got some rock-solid wits in that skull.”

She squeezed a grape so hard it popped.

“So I been thinking to myself, I ain’t seen my second-favorite girl in the world around the house lately. I miss you, Grace-face! Especially with your birthday coming up and all.” Her gaze became one of exaggerated concern. “Tell me, dear … have you and Alexis been at odds?”

“We’re okay.”

“Well, that’s not what I heard. And what I did hear has me worried. Is it true you’ve been running around with that slut Mandarin Ramey?”

The gallon of milk slipped from my hand and exploded. It splashed all over both of us, our clothes, our faces, spiking across the floor. Polly Bunker gaped at me, milk dripping from her hair.

“Whoops,” I said.

I fled from the produce section, darting through the bread and cereal aisle to the front of the store. But when I reached the exit, I hesitated.

Momma was so pageant-brained, if I didn’t bring home any milk, there’d be hell to pay.

I hurried to the dairy case at the other end of the store. I had to step aside as a stock boy came out of the back room, carrying a mop. When he kicked the door shut behind him, I locked eyes with the jackalope-head trophy affixed to the back of it.

He was a crappy jackalope, unlike the glossy mass-produced ones at the souvenir shop. His head was the size of a baseball. He seemed undignified, with his sparrow-colored fur all matted down, beads of glue showing around the base of his tiny transplanted antlers. And here he was, trapped forever, where nobody would ever see him. Not that they’d appreciate him, anyway. Such a tragic leap from the fields of his first life.

I found myself thinking of Mandarin again. Just like the jackalope, she was misunderstood. Stuck fast. Unable to free herself—at least without a little help.

All of a sudden, I had an idea. An idea so good it made me bounce.

I glanced around and found nobody nearby. They had probably rushed to the produce section to gawk at soggy old Polly Bunker.

Whoops
.

I grinned and bounced again for good measure. Kimanah Paisley and Sophie Brawls didn’t matter. They weren’t here, but I was. And I’d figured out how to bring Mandarin and me back together. Something so grand, so dangerous, so
symbolic
, I could hardly believe I’d come up with it myself. I didn’t know if I could pull it off. But it was worth the risk.

I just had to find the courage to take that first step.