Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [37]
I picked up a french fry, then set it back down. With the money I’d begged from Momma, I’d ordered cheeseburgers, fries, and strawberry milk shakes for Mandarin and me. By now, everything was lukewarm. I felt like a new girlfriend stood up on a date.
Maybe our friendship hadn’t advanced after all.
Just as I was prepared to slink away, Mandarin plunked herself down on the other side of the table with a world-weary sigh. Instead of greeting me, she withdrew a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled. I noticed a hickey the color of a squashed raspberry on her neck before she flipped her hair over it.
“What?” she demanded.
I must have been glaring. I didn’t know I had it in me—the audacity to glare at Mandarin Ramey. “I don’t know. It’s just … I was waiting a long time.”
“Come on, Gracey. I was busy.”
“I just thought we agreed on seven-thirty, is all.”
“Don’t give me the third degree, all right?” A puff of smoke escaped from Mandarin’s lips. I had the urge to pluck at it. “I get enough of it at school. The last thing I need is to get it from my best friend, too.”
What?
I paused my brain, rewound. She had said it. I was sure.
She’d called me her best friend.
I just couldn’t believe it—that I could be the best at something, like friendship. To someone like Mandarin. And after such a short time.
“Well,” I said, hiding my smile, “our food’s all cold. I guess we can order more, if you like.”
“No big deal. I don’t eat burgers anyways, but thanks.”
I should have known. I’d only ever seen her eat fruit. “Oh. Well, I got us both milk shakes. Strawberry.”
“Perfect.” She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette on the tabletop. Then she took her milk shake and began to drink and drink, ravenous for that dairy protein missing from her diet. When she came up for air, the shake was half gone.
“So,” she began. “Did you hear about the dance?”
I nodded vigorously.
I’d already imagined the entrance we would make. Just like in one of those teen movies. Everyone would be shimmying to the beat in their cowboy boots and hats, and then all of a sudden the music would stop—screech—because Mandarin and I had stepped through the door. In all my daydreams, I had long black hair, like hers. We would cross the gym, and everyone would part to let us through, their faces slack with admiration, as we made our way to the center of the dance floor. And then …
“My God,” Mandarin said. “I wouldn’t be seen at that thing if the devil jabbed his pitchfork in my back. What a nightmare.”
I stopped grinning.
“Can you believe that idiotic theme?” She pilfered one of my french fries and held it between two fingers as if she were about to smoke it. “Cowboy. As if we aren’t surrounded by cowboys every waking minute. And ranchers. And miners, all cruddy with bentonite dust. Dirty, worthless men.”
It troubled me, the way she said it. I remembered meeting plenty of friendly, helpful cowboys and ranchers and miners during my pageant road trips with Momma. They gave us directions, pointed us to diners and motels. They patted me on the head and fished for mints in their dusty jeans pockets.
And anyway, Mandarin sure didn’t act like she hated them.
Or so I’d heard, anyway. I was dying to know how she really spent her evenings and weekends. Was my tally correct? What exactly did she do once the door closed? How could I truly be like Mandarin if she never told me the details?
“Don’t you go out with some of them?” I asked.
Mandarin took a long swallow of her milk shake. I suspected I’d asked the wrong question. I tried to clarify what I’d said, to make it sound innocuous, since I didn’t want her to think I was accusing her of sleeping around. But all I could think of was “Like, your boyfriends?” which probably made it worse.
“I know what you’re saying,” she said.
“No,” I interjected. “No, I’m not. Not saying what you think I’m saying, I mean.”
“Don’t lie.