Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [60]
While Momma pondered the racks of clothing, I headed for the plastic bins. They overflowed with rubbish. Old stuffed animals—the plush kind, fortunately. Western novels with laminated covers. Superfluous kitchen gadgets, like bagel slicers and lime squeezers and plastic molds to squish butter into the shapes of pigs and turkeys. I never reached too deep, in fear of discovering a dead cockroach—or worse, a live one.
I found the rock tumbler in bin number two. The front of the box featured a pair of grinning children cupping handfuls of artificially glossy examples.
I had mixed feelings about rock tumblers. They smoothed out all the character of rocks, all the history, the genuine erosion. Still, I liked the idea of uncovering the potential of the stones in my collection—all their inner beauty revealed.
It didn’t matter, because I had no money other than the hundred-dollar savings bond from my essay contest win. Another thing shoved into the bottom of my tote bag.
“Grace, could you come here?” Momma called.
I set down the box and followed her voice around the corner. Momma held up a lilac prom dress so narrow it resembled a single leg of tights. It had puffy sleeves like baby tutus, and a hem so short I couldn’t imagine anyone wearing it without all her improper places exposed.
“What do you think of this?”
I hesitated. I didn’t see how she could be serious; yet Momma seldom joked with me. “It’s …” I paused. “I dare you to try it on.”
Momma blinked at me for a second. Then, slowly, she began to smile.
“Not on your life, missus.” She held it out at arm’s length. “But don’t you have a dance coming up? There’s always a dance in the spring, isn’t there? Maybe you want to try it on.”
I giggled. “No way.”
The jingle bell on the front door rang. We both turned to look.
Mandarin stood in the doorway, wearing a men’s white undershirt and a cocktail apron over her lowest-slung jeans. “Well, hey there,” she said. “I noticed the two of you in the window.”
Momma raised her eyebrows at me. I glanced from face to face, knowing I had to make the introduction I’d dreaded.
“Momma, this is … Mandarin Ramey.”
“Oh, yes,” Momma said. “Of course.”
“Nice to meet you finally!” Mandarin turned to me. “I’m on break. An extended break. How about we grab dinner? There ain’t enough pervy drunks yet for my dad to need me, not until dark.”
Pervy drunks? Was she trying to get me in trouble? “One second,” I told Momma. Then I walked into Mandarin, pushing against her, forcing her to back up around the corner.
“What are you doing?” I whispered once we were out of sight. “You can’t talk about drunks in front of my mother. She’ll forbid us from hanging out, ever. She’ll—”
Laughing, Mandarin shook me by the shoulders. “Snap out of it! I can deal with adults. Just you watch.”
To my horror, she shoved past me and called, “Ms. Carpenter?”
“Yes?” Momma said.
“That’s a lovely color dress you got there.”
Momma glanced down at the lilac monstrosity still draped over her arm.
“Grace told me about her birthday supper tomorrow,” Mandarin went on. “And I thought I’d be working, but I was fortunate enough to get my shift covered. I’d love to join you, if the invitation still stands.”
I gripped the edge of a plastic bin to keep from visibly cringing.
Because the thing was, Momma hadn’t specifically invited Mandarin to dinner. She’d said I could invite my friends—which undoubtedly meant Alexis. But to my surprise, she appeared interested. I could see menus, outfits, decorations flickering before her eyes. A guest was a guest, I supposed. Even a girl with no future but trouble, in Momma’s own words.
“Why not?” she replied. I wanted to groan: the British accent was back. “We live at 17 Pioneer Ridge, up on the hill. How does six o’clock sound?”
Mandarin nodded,