Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [35]
“The theme’s going to be …” Mr. Beck paused for dramatic effect. “Cowboy!”
The class immediately toppled into chaos, shouts, laughter, the screech of desks. And though the school’s use of “Cowboy” as an allegedly original theme insulted my intelligence, I felt swept up in the excitement.
“Hey, Alexis,” I called.
Alexis turned to Paige, ignoring me. “Hey, isn’t Brandi on the dance committee?”
Paige nodded. “If we want, you and me and Samantha can come in and help decorate. It’ll be so exciting!”
Alexis glanced at me before scooting her desk farther away.
It hurt. It really did, in the seconds before I remembered myself. Hurriedly, I readopted my insolent expression, my casual pose. Those girls didn’t matter. I was nothing like them.
When the bell rang, Ms. Ingle called to me as I hurried from the classroom. I pretended not to hear her. I wanted to get to math early, because I didn’t want to run into Mandarin unprepared.
It didn’t matter. Because she was standing right outside.
She wore her lavender sweater, the one from the day she’d confronted me at the soda machine. It occurred to me that I was wearing purple too, that we matched, although she wasn’t showing nearly as much skin as me. Her thumbs were tucked into the back pockets of her jeans, her hair slung over one shoulder.
I took a deep breath and walked over to her.
“Morning,” she said. She didn’t mention my skimpy clothing, my loose, unbraided hair. “I missed you this weekend.”
I beamed like crazy, even though it didn’t make any sense. Mandarin had my phone number. We all had everybody’s; the Washokey directory was more of a pamphlet than a book.
“Hey, what’s her deal?” she asked suddenly.
I followed the tilt of her chin to Ms. Ingle, who was waving at us from the doorway. I looked away quickly. “Wants to talk about service project stuff, I guess.”
Mandarin waved back at her, pretending to mistake her gesture for a hello. “Geez, lady,” she muttered. “Drop it already. We’re on it, y’know?”
She turned to me. “Ms. Ingle can be such a bitch. Don’t you think?”
I hesitated. Ms. Ingle had never been anything but nice to me. She was nice to everybody, in that wishy-washy marshmallowy pushover way. Never in a million years would I ever consider her a bitch. But I wasn’t about to contradict Mandarin. Not this early in the game. So I nodded. “Yeah, Ms. Ingle’s a bitch.”
To my surprise, Mandarin smiled condescendingly. “No she ain’t. Not really. Although she is always up in everybody’s business. But it’s her job, I guess.”
“Oh,” I said. “Right.”
“Ready to go?” She reached out and took my arm. Any bewilderment I felt sailed away as she led me down the hall toward math, through an ocean of staring students, all of them probably wondering where in the world I’d suddenly come from.
For the fourth time that week, Mandarin and I bought platefuls of fruit at lunch and sat side by side on a cement planter overflowing with lilacs. I mimicked her as she dug her fingernails into an orange, twisted the stem off a banana, bit the ripe parts out of a peach.
“It’s getting warmer out,” she remarked.
I nodded. “I guess they’ll open the pool soon.”
“Yeah, not really my thing.” She flung her banana peel into the lilac planter. “I love the heat, though. Can’t wait for summer.”
I took a bite of my unripe peach, because I wasn’t sure what to say next. Were we really discussing the weather?
Problem was, Mandarin and I didn’t have much to talk about. We’d spent four lunch periods together now, the majority of the time in silence.
I knew we should discuss the service project, not to mention California. But I avoided both topics. The first because I didn’t want to piss off Mandarin. The second because it made me nervous—and for some reason, she didn’t bring it up either. Which was just fine. Even if our conversations weren’t particularly inspired, our friendship was enough.
And now everybody knew about it. At least, the kids who cared. I savored their reactions when we passed them in the halls. Sideways glances, sudden