Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [61]
“So dinner tomorrow,” I said, my skin still crawling. “All of us together. Great. But I’m going off now with Mandarin, all right? Don’t save dinner. We’ll get something at the A&W, or whatever.”
Momma shrugged. “That’s fine.”
She busied herself hanging up the purple dress, smoothing it out, puffing the outrageous sleeves, as if anybody cared.
“I’ll get it!” I screamed, but Momma reached the front door ahead of me. All day she’d been on edge, zipping around like a crazed hornet, perching on chairs and popping up as if they were strewn with nails. Only the concept of a brand-new audience for her affectations could override pageant prep.
She flung open the door, her ankles crossed as if she were about to curtsy. “Welcome!” she exclaimed before both our mouths fell open.
Mandarin wore a white blouse with ruffled sleeves, tucked into a pleated khaki skirt. Neither fit quite right on her angular frame. A white gash of scalp showed through the part of her hair, which she’d tethered in matching pageant-perfect braids. Her black shoes had two-inch heels. She wore nylons.
Since the previous afternoon at the junk shop, I had come to accept the freakish clashing of personalities my birthday dinner would bring. I’d even started to anticipate it. Finally, a chance to spite Momma, or at least to get her attention.
But this wasn’t the Mandarin I’d meant to bring home.
Just when I was about to do something rash—laugh or shout, I didn’t know what—Mandarin stole a glance my way.
This is just a game I’m playing, her expression read. It’s still me in here.
Still, I felt only slightly placated as she turned to Momma and smiled demurely. “It’s so nice to finally have a proper meeting with you, Adrina.”
“Of course,” Momma said after faltering for a moment at her first name. “I’ve been wanting to meet you, too.”
“Is that right?”
Momma cupped a hand around her mouth and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You’re famous round these parts!”
I swallowed hard, attempting to keep my soul from fleeing out my throat in humiliation.
“Only joking!” Momma said, her British accent stronger by the second. “I’ve made us a delightful supper. Alaskan salmon, shipped all the way from the North Pacific. Baked in wasabi cream sauce. Bet you’ve never had authentic Alaskan salmon before.”
“You bet right.”
“The trick with salmon is baking it as little as possible,” Momma said, winding her arm through Mandarin’s. “Chewy salmon is the worst. But if you don’t cook it enough, you might possibly give everybody parasites.…”
She led Mandarin around the corner toward the kitchen, leaving me alone in the entryway. I stood there a second, feeling as if I had missed something. Then I shut the door. On second thought, I twisted the dead bolt, to keep out any other disturbing imposters.
But apparently I’d trapped another one inside, as I discovered when Taffeta came sashaying down the stairs in jeans and one of her little-girl undershirts.
“Taffeta! Why in the world are you walking like that?”
She stopped in the middle of the stairs with one hand on her hip. “It’s my new pageant walk.”
“You look ridiculous. And if you don’t change out of those jeans, Momma’ll kick your butt halfway to Nebraska.”
“But you’ve got jeans on too!”
“Taffeta,” I said warningly.
She stuck out her tongue and charged back up the stairs.
In the kitchen, Mandarin and my mother were engaged in intense conversation.
“I mean, Alaska, Paris, Rome …,” Momma said. “All those places, I know I’ll get there someday. But I haven’t been in any sort of a hurry.”
Mandarin seemed to be avoiding my eyes. In fact, she appeared fascinated with Momma’s words, flicking the end of one braid like a paintbrush.
“And Washokey’s such a magnificent place to raise the children, after all,” Momma said. “Such a fabulous school. No robberies or muggings. That’s why I settled here in the first place. I spent some time in Jackson Hole when I was your age, but it only took a few months away before I realized I had to come back.”
“Washokey doesn’t bore you?” Mandarin asked.
Momma answered a