Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [20]
To my astonishment, she dropped to her knees. Right in front of me, on the hideous old-man carpet. She grabbed my hands. I willed them not to shake.
“Except maybe you, Gracey.”
Why do I get it?
“Did you know I read your essay?”
I swallowed hard. “You did?”
“They had ’em all hanging on the bulletin board outside Beck’s office. I had a couple chances to flip through yours while I waited. I read it and I was like, finally, here’s somebody who understands!”
I had trouble meeting her eyes. Because how could my essay have meant something to her when I’d written it for them—all the people she hated?
“It was just for the contest.… I don’t even remember what I wrote, exactly.”
“You’re not like the rest of them. All everybody does here is bitch and moan about how they want to move to the big city, how there’s never nothing to do here—but they don’t mean it. Not truly. Otherwise, they’d try. But you …”
She squeezed my hands.
“You’ve got your shit together. You know how easy it is to get stuck in this place, and unlike the rest of them, you’re actually trying to get unstuck. You see, Gracey? We’re two of a kind. That’s why I wanted you to come over. We’ll die here if we don’t get out.”
She was so close to me I could see my reflection in her pupils.
“You’ve still got lots to learn. But we’re two of a kind. I can feel it.”
Two of a kind.
What if she’s right? implored the hopeful girl inside me, pounding on the bars of my rib cage. You have it in you. What if I really could be like Mandarin?
“M-maybe I should go.”
“Go? Why?”
Because I’m not you, I wanted to say. You’re wrong, and the girl inside me is wrong. I’m nothing like you at all.
I couldn’t look at her as I pulled my hands from hers, closed my textbook, and stood.
“It’s not like I’m asking you to run away with me,” Mandarin said. “I just wanted to talk. Even in your essay you said—”
“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” And then I fled.
I listened to my sister sing while I did the dishes. Her voice was as warm and fluid as the sudsy water pouring over my hands. She was rehearsing Andrea Bocelli’s “Con Te Partirò” for the upcoming pageant.
In Italian.
It had all started the afternoon when Momma put an Italian opera album on repeat. After just two loops, Taffeta was singing along. She couldn’t understand Italian or read Italian words. But she could sing Italian perfectly.
That was my sister’s secret weapon.
It was a mighty good one. So good it seemed almost blasphemous for something that transcendent to be unveiled in a small-town pageant. I’d been in dozens of child beauty pageants and attended dozens more. I’d never heard a contestant sing in another language. As a matter of fact, outside of our crappy high school language classes, I’d never heard anybody in Washokey speak another language, other than the handful of Mexican migrants who picked sugar beets in the fall.
I drizzled a trail of lime green soap over a pink plate and scrubbed. Although I never admitted it, I loved listening to Taffeta sing. As long as I stayed in the kitchen while she rehearsed, I could eavesdrop without Momma’s knowing. But that night, Taffeta seemed tired. It was past her bedtime. Momma’s off-key screeching kept interrupting the song. And worst, the memory of what had happened at Mandarin’s house kept pushing against the backs of my eyeballs, threatening to flood.
Mandarin Ramey had invited me into her world. And I had refused her.
But her world isn’t what I thought it would be, I thought, trying to console myself. Just like her crummy bedroom, or the inside of her house. The reality was entirely different from the fantasy. Like opening Pandora’s box when I’d only considered the engravings on the outside. I thought she’d be her confident, carefree self.
I didn’t know she’d be so vulnerable.
When I pulled my arm from the suds, I noticed Mandarin’s address—34 Plains Street—still visible on my skin. I reached for the dish soap