Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [53]
Mandarin must have felt the same way. She wrapped her arms around her body, hugging herself. From her fingers dangled the jackalope head, the only trophy she’d wanted to save. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.
“And go home?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. Let’s go somewhere. Have you got anyplace to go?”
“What kind of place? Like the canal?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Someplace magic.”
Someplace magic? What did that mean? I considered the Tombs, and the Virgin Mary. The place closest to magic I knew. But for some reason, I didn’t feel ready to bring Mandarin there. And what if the cave painting made her think of her dead mother?
“I can’t think of anywhere,” I said.
“Let’s get in the truck, at least.”
We crawled back into the cab. The wind whistled through the edges of the windows. Without warning, Mandarin lay down, resting her head on my thigh. She held the jackalope on her stomach.
“My birthday’s coming up,” I said.
I could have slapped my own face. What did I expect—a cupcake?
“Really,” Mandarin said.
“It’s not a big deal,” I said hurriedly. “I mean, we never make a big deal out of it. My mother doesn’t like birthdays.”
“Why’s that?”
“I think it’s because she hates getting older herself. And she hates us getting older too. Especially my sister, Taffeta.”
“The singing one?”
“Right,” I replied, slightly amused. I’d never talked about Taffeta. “When it comes to beauty pageants, youth is important. Once Taffeta’s nine or so, she won’t have as many chances. It’s the awkward stage. I screwed up my own chances when I was even younger than that, though. Taffeta’s all she’s got left.”
“You used to be in beauty pageants?”
I was glad for the darkness, because I blushed furiously.
So Mandarin didn’t remember the backstage scolding eight years earlier, at my ill-fated Little Miss Washokey. It was a relief to be spared the shame of her memory, but it was also kind of disappointing. Because—well, I’d never forgotten. Obviously.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Hard to believe that now, huh?”
And then, because I had to get it in, otherwise I would never have said it, I blurted, “So my mother wants you to come over for a birthday dinner. Next Saturday.”
She’d mentioned it last night over supper.
“Oh, sure. Like I’d be allowed inside your house.”
“Actually, I think my mother’s kind of curious about you.”
“Her and everybody!” In my lap, Mandarin twisted a piece of her hair around her index finger. “And I don’t know why. When you meet me, I ain’t all that interesting.”
“It’s really no big deal,” I said again. Even if she wanted to come, it would be too weird. Though of course she didn’t want to, anyway. Like the dance, that was just the way it was when you had friends like Mandarin instead of normal people. “I’ll just tell her you can’t come.”
After another silence, I wondered out loud, “Do you think the trophies are all going to wash up somewhere random? Like Montana? Or in a beaver dam? It’d be funny if—”
“Are you really gonna leave town with me?”
I stared down at Mandarin. She was smiling. But her eyes weren’t.
That night, we had entered the second stage of our friendship. The weeks before barely counted compared to what we’d just shared. It would take much more than a misunderstanding to break us now. But what she was asking …
I tried to picture the two of us strolling down some ritzy, palm-lined West Coast avenue in high heels and enormous sunglasses. Paparazzi. Producers. Crowds of would-be actresses with crunchy hair and dogs in plaid suitcases. Men with chest hair and bracelets.
It would never happen.
So I felt safe making the promise a second time: “Of course.”
Mandarin closed her eyes. I lifted my hand to touch her face, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, so my hand just hovered there.
“You must have seen my father,” she said. I remembered when she’d called him well-meaning, a good guy deep down. But this time, she didn’t say anything to defend him.
“I did.”
“I have to get out of here.”
I allowed my hand to drop to Mandarin’s forehead. It felt cool, as if the night had sucked out all the warmth. I thought