Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [29]
Taffeta sat on her hands.
“Wash off that crayon first.”
Going out to dinner meant piling into Momma’s pink hatchback and journeying four blocks to the Buffalo Grill. With Momma, walking was never an option. It also meant seeing Samantha Dent. Better Samantha than Alexis or Paige, though.
Besides more classic carrion, like beef and chicken, the Buffalo Grill really did grill buffalo. It also grilled emu, elk, and jackrabbit. For a while it had grilled rattlesnake, until the local serpentine population dwindled so much there weren’t any snakes left to catch.
Prairie oysters, however—more commonly known as “bull balls”—were the kitchen’s specialty. Even before I fully understood how boys and girls were different, the appetizer had disgusted me. Little brown spheres, deep-fried to a crisp. Served with three kinds of dipping sauce. And parsley.
The trophies were worse. The heads were displayed all across the restaurant: stuffed pronghorns with glass marbles instead of eyes, bobcats frozen in death yowls, a massive male elk with a film of dust on his antlers. Everyone stayed away from the table underneath the elk, so as to avoid the fleas that allegedly fell from his beard. There was even a black bear, not quite a cub, but small enough that his murder had probably erred on just the wrong side of legal. A stuffed ground squirrel rode on its forehead—another instance of a Wyoming sense of humor.
Most people frequented the Buffalo Grill because of the questionable appetizers and taxidermy. One night I’d even seen Mr. Beck at a back table, eating soup alone.
Samantha led us to a booth by the window. I watched her warily as she handed us our menus, but she wouldn’t meet my eye. Sometimes I got the impression that Samantha disagreed with Alexis & Co.’s antics, though I knew that—like me—she’d never be brave enough to speak out against them.
“Wanna hear about our specials?” she asked. “We’ve got—”
“Not really,” I interrupted.
Samantha looked stricken.
“Grace!” Momma exclaimed. “Sure we do, honey. Go right ahead.”
Samantha mumbled about beef stew and deep-fried onion blossoms and then scampered away.
Momma glared at me. “That wasn’t like you, Grace.”
“I’ve had a rough day.”
The waiter appeared, and I ordered a fruit salad. As soon as he left, Momma turned back to us. “We need to talk hairstyles.”
Of course she didn’t ask about my day. I should have learned to stop hoping. Not that I would have told her anything—God, no. I crossed my arms and slouched in my seat.
Watching me, Taffeta slouched in her seat too.
“I read an article on extensions a couple mornings back,” Momma said. “At first I just passed it off as nonsense talk, since Taffeta’s got such lovely locks and we could hardly ask for anything better.” She reached out and buried her fingers in Taffeta’s hair. Taffeta made a face. “But then I began wondering if the other mothers are doing it, and if so, are we at a disadvantage?”
Momma paused a second, as if waiting for my opinion, but I knew she wasn’t, not really. She only prattled on like that when she’d already made up her mind.
“Problem is, the only extensions Shirley Colby’s got at the salon are those awful clip-on kind, like Barbie-doll hair. I’d never spend my hard-earned money on that garbage. But then I gave a few Park County salons a call, and one of them said …”
We’d just gotten our food when another family came in. The man wore a black and white checkered shirt that ballooned around him, as if he’d lost weight since he’d bought it. Or maybe he’d donated all the pounds to his wife, who was twice his size. She balanced a toddler on one generous hip. I didn’t recognize them, which was pretty unusual around here.
“Those are the Franks,” Momma told me. “Tom and Winnie Frank. Moved back a few weeks ago. Winnie used to be Winnie Hildebrandt. She was in my year at school. One of the