Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [2]
“Beauty pageants are stupid,” I said to Momma. “What’s the point?”
She yanked her hands from me as if my skin had turned scalding hot. It took her a second to regain composure. Then she seized my shoulder with crablike pincers and hustled me toward the car, her whole face crimson.
I felt sorry for a second. But then I risked one last awestruck glance back.
The girl twisted the lilac between two fingers, flicking the pale purple bloom back and forth. Her ink-flower hair shifted and danced in the wind. She stared steadily back at me, holding my eyes as if by an invisible length of chain—binding me to her, even then.
My little sister, Taffeta, peered through a kaleidoscope as we walked to school, her face tipped back, her exposed eye squinched shut. She’d found it in the alley behind Arapahoe Court. Since she refused to give me her hand to hold, I led her by the mitten clipped to the sleeve of her red plaid jacket.
“Stop pulling, Grace,” she complained. “My mitten’s gonna get yanked off.”
“Then pay attention to where you’re going.”
With her eye still pressed to the battered tube, Taffeta shook her head. She looked like a cat with its head stuck in a Pringles can.
“Fine,” I said, releasing her mitten. “If you slip in a patch of slush and crack open your head, don’t come bawling to me, all right?”
There wasn’t any slush left, though. A few weeks earlier it had clogged the gutters like congealed fat, but by now the last of it had melted.
No matter the season, Taffeta always dragged her feet during our morning walk. She hated school with a passion I never could understand. Her kindergarten classmates adored her, just like the judges of every beauty pageant she entered. She had immense brown eyes and hair the color of baby-duck feathers. A legendary music in her voice. People approached us on Main Street all the time just to hear her speak—which my mother loved.
“Everybody just wishes they had a gift like hers,” Momma often said.
As a child, I’d resembled Taffeta, even though we were just half sisters. But whatever in me had appealed to pageant judges had long since vanished. My childhood softness had become a skinny awkwardness, as if my fourteen-year-old self had been nailed together from colt legs and collarbones. My hair was the yellowy tan of oak furniture. I french-braided it every morning to ward off the wind, but pieces always broke free and whipped my face like Medusa coils.
“Taffeta?” I called, realizing she was no longer beside me.
I found her crouched beside a fire-ant pile, using her kaleidoscope to poke at the few creatures braving the early-spring air. Twin splotches of mud soiled the knees of her white tights. I sighed, knowing that Momma would find a way to blame the mess on me.
“Taffeta, get up,” I ordered.
“Don’t call me Taffeta. Call me Taffy and I’ll come.”
“Taffy’s awful,” I said, although I didn’t think much of Taffeta, either.
“You’re awful.”
“If you don’t get up, I’ll freak out.”
“You won’t.”
I started toward her. But my boot skidded in a slick spot, and I had to grab the chain-link fence so I wouldn’t fall. I glanced around wildly and decided nobody saw.
“I need to tie my shoe,” Taffeta said.
She refused to let me tie them for her, so I crossed my arms and waited. I could already see the school building all the kids in Washokey shared: a faded brick rectangle from the olden days, set against a panorama of dry hills and open range. Endless space. A dead planet.
The badlands.
I’d wandered through the Washokey Badlands Basin so many times I’d memorized the feeling. The forlorn boom of wind. A sky big enough to scare an atheist into prayer. No wonder cowboys sang about being lonesome. Yet somehow, I felt part of something significant out there, collecting mountains whittled into stones to carry with me, like pocket amulets.
I dug in my tote bag until I found that day’s stone: a hunk of white quartz