Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [32]
That Sunday, Momma drove to Sheridan to peruse the shops for last-minute pageant supplies. I was stuck with Taffeta, playing Candy Land.
I didn’t usually mind playing games with my sister. But that afternoon, I felt like every minute wasted could have been the best minute of my life if only I were with Mandarin.
All weekend, Friday morning kept coming back to me like a scene from a movie. The feel of the cotton, velvety and weightless and slightly sticky with sap. Mandarin spitting and laughing as a piece went into her mouth. Spinning with our eyes locked, her hands gripping mine. Ms. Ingle’s face when I’d stolen back into the classroom, still flecked with white fuzz.
“I’m glad to see the two of you getting along,” she’d said when she kept me after class. “How’s the tutoring going? Have you come up with any ideas for Mandarin’s service project?”
I tried not to think about the reality of Mandarin’s request. All that mattered, for the moment, was that she had asked.
Now I sat on Taffeta’s pink shag carpet, navigating confectionary kingdoms like Gum Drop Mountain and the Candy Cane Forest. With my sister, Candy Land took ages. She counted her moves out loud, stubbing her index finger on each square. Every five minutes, she’d call a time-out for a bathroom break or a snack. Sometimes she would space out entirely, murmuring a song to herself in Italian, her eyes fixed on some glittering molecule only she could see.
It was like being hurled backward into my dismal pre-Mandarin past. No wonder I was feeling mutinous.
Once Taffeta finished her turn, I drew a card. “Uh-oh,” I said, holding the card so she couldn’t see it. “Bad luck for you. On your next turn, you’ve got to go backwards.”
“No way,” Taffeta protested. “There’s no cards like that.”
“Candy Land put out a mass email to all game owners. I guess you haven’t heard. Now the cards have different meanings. When people whose ages are double digits get red cards, the next player has to move in reverse. Sorry about that.”
“That’s not fair!”
“It’s the new rules. I can’t help it if you didn’t get the email.”
“You’re lying, Grace! There wasn’t any email.”
“How do you know? You can’t even read yet.”
“I can too!” Taffeta insisted. “Stop making fun of me, or I’ll tell.”
“Do you think Momma will care?”
Taffeta’s chin puckered, and for a second I thought she was going to cry. But then she whacked the game board with her fist. It flipped into the air, scattering cards and pieces.
I sighed.
“Hey, Taffy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the game.”
She wouldn’t look at me.
“Fine.” I stood up. “Be right back.”
I returned with one of those giant chewy SweeTarts, salvaged from my rock collection box. Momma used to use them as pacifiers on our road trips.
“Listen,” I said, flipping the candy between my fingers like a magician’s coin. “I was just trying to spice things up. I didn’t mean what I said about Momma.” I paused. “Anyway, Momma’s pretty clear about what’s important to her.”
“I’m important,” Taffeta said.
“Of course you are.”
“I’m more important than you. She likes me better than you.”
How did little kids know exactly what hurt the most? When I didn’t reply, she crept over to me on all fours and took my face in her hands, swiveling it toward her. Her bottom lip stuck out like a pink piece of gum.
“Grace, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad! Momma likes us the same.”
I dislodged her hands, trying not to let the hurt show on my face. “No, you were right. I’ll admit it.”
Determinedly, Taffeta shook her head.
Sometimes I could hardly believe my sister was real. She looked more like a doll than a flesh-and-blood child, with skin that seemed to glow from the inside, tiny dimpled hands, eyes as flawless as the brown glass marbles used for trophy eyes. I had to remind