Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [46]
So that was it, then. It was over.
I grabbed my tote bag and left without another word, shutting Mandarin’s bedroom door as gently as I could. On my way out of her house, I cupped both my hands over my nose and mouth, as if less oxygen would reduce my chances of bursting into tears.
Then I saw the envelope.
Just part of it, sticking out of the mailbox. I would have overlooked it if I hadn’t noticed the first few letters of Mandarin’s name. Handwritten, in neat blue ink.
Although I was terrified Mandarin might come roaring out behind me, I pulled out the envelope. It felt lopsided, heavier than a letter should. I traced the outline of the triangular object inside, pinched it between my fingertips.
An arrowhead.
I remembered the jar of perfect arrowheads she’d pulled from under her bed. Blue-white chalcedony. Tiger skin obsidian.
Somebody was sending Mandarin arrowheads.
I looked at the return address. The strange name—Kimanah Paisley—meant nothing to me. Neither did the address: Riverton, WY 82501. Riverton was a few hours south. Home to the Wind River Reservation. More badlands.
And to whomever was sending Mandarin arrowheads.
My throat ached. What were a few weeks of friendship compared to what she’d apparently had with this mystery girl? Mandarin and I had spent barely any time together outside of school. She shot down every personal question I asked. Though I supposed she had good reason to—I’d betrayed her trust, all for three weeks at a stupid conference that was sounding worse by the minute. “Leadership: the Musical”? Really?
I considered taking the envelope. Mandarin had stolen my pamphlet, after all. But instead, I jammed it back in the mailbox and headed for the Tombs.
By Thursday, Momma’s pageant fever was worse than ever, though the tri-county pageant wasn’t until early June. She hadn’t even bothered to get dressed. She bustled around in a baggy satin muumuu covered in a pandemonium of butterflies and flowers against a royal blue background. Her bosom jiggled underneath like smuggled water balloons. It was almost hypnotizing.
Each day, after school, she relegated hordes of menial tasks to me, like gluing rhinestones to Taffeta’s flip-flops for the swimwear competition. I never protested, which Momma found extremely unusual. She must have thought I’d come down with wildwind psychosis, though she never asked what was wrong.
I still hadn’t mentioned my contest win, the papers at the bottom of my tote bag. I couldn’t even think of the conference without my throat burning and my lungs going haywire.
On Tuesday, I’d approached Ms. Ingle after homeroom to tell her I’d have to find another service project. “I’m really sorry,” I said, still feeling guilty about what I’d called her behind her back. “It’s just not going to work out.”
“Has something happened between you and Mandarin?”
I fumbled in my pocket for a stone and found it empty. “Well …”
“Grace, has she done something to you?”
“Done something?”
“You can tell me anything, you know. If Mandarin’s been pressuring you to take part in activities you know you shouldn’t—”
“No!” I almost shouted. “Nothing like that. It’s just that I don’t feel like I’m the best person to tutor Mandarin. I’m just so young, you know? Maybe she’d be better off working with an upperclassman, or at least a real sophomore. Someone like …” I thought quickly. “Like Davey Miller.”
“Davey?” Ms. Ingle said incredulously.
“Okay, maybe not Davey.”
“Grace, of course you’re a real sophomore. You’re at the top of the class.” She tapped her chin with two fingers. “I think I know what the real problem is. I’m sensing a case of low self-esteem. Is that correct?”
“I don’t think …” I paused. If I denied it, I’d sound big-headed. But I didn’t want to agree, either.
“If so, it’s entirely misplaced. In fact, you have more potential for success than any student I’ve ever taught. There’s plenty you can teach Mandarin. And she wants you to. Remember, she asked for you.”
I didn’t reply, but a sniffle escaped.
“Though if it