Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [62]
“Aren’t you going to Washington, D.C., with Grace this summer?”
I stared at Mandarin in horror.
“Washington, D.C.?” Momma said. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“You mean Grace hasn’t told you about the leadership conference?” Mandarin said before I could speak. “They found out that idiot kid Peter copied his essay, and Gracey here’s the real winner.”
Momma placed a hand on my shoulder. “Is this the truth, Grace? Why didn’t you tell me you won?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I just—”
“Grace was just telling me how lonely she thought she’d be, traveling by herself,” Mandarin interrupted. “Wouldn’t it be better if all of you went together?”
What was she doing?
I knew Washington wasn’t part of Mandarin’s plans for us. But just the thought of my mother and sister tagging along—Taffeta’s brattiness, Momma’s incessant prattling, like mistuned radios spoiling all the sounds and sights—was too much for me to handle. I wanted to double over. “But it’s a conference, Momma,” I protested. “I’ll be in classes. I’ll hardly have any free time. I don’t think—”
“Grace doesn’t tell me anything,” Momma said to Mandarin, as if I weren’t even there. “She’d have had a terrible time and I’d never have known. Washington, D.C., with my girls! It’ll be perfect. And a perfect dress rehearsal to get us ready for our trip to California.”
I saw Mandarin’s grin freeze on her face. “California?”
“If Taffeta wins the state pageant in a month—or rather, when she wins—after she wins the tri-county, that’s where the nationals are held.”
“The beauty pageant nationals,” Mandarin clarified.
Momma nodded. “I’ve forever wanted to go there. Some people call Jackson Hole—that’s where I used to live—they call it California East, did you know that?”
I was still stuck on the nightmarish notion of Momma and Taffeta joining me in Washington. “Momma, you know the conference is three whole weeks long,” I said. “What about work?”
“Are you kidding?” Momma turned from me to Mandarin. “The nice thing about my line of work—selling makeup products for Femme Fatale Cosmetics, Inc.—is that I get to make my own hours. I’m my own boss. So I get lots of free time. Usually June is my busiest month because of sweepstakes, but now they’re doing it twice per year, and so it’s no problem if I take some time off, especially for my brilliant daughters.”
Momma reached out for my shoulder again, but I leaned down just in time, pretending to adjust my shoe.
“You know what, Mandarin?” she said. “Maybe you should look into cosmetics sales yourself. You’ve certainly got the looks it requires. Beauty is everything, I’m telling you. No one wants to buy lipsticks from a wrinkled old lady. Now, I’ll be right back. I have to use the powder room.”
As Momma danced out of the kitchen, I turned to glare at Mandarin.
“It ain’t my fault you didn’t tell your mom you won,” she whispered. “And anyways, can’t you take a joke? Stop looking at me like that.”
An hour later, we sat around the dinner table, which was cluttered with the remains of our feast: plates mucky with pink slivers of salmon flesh and silvery skin, balled-up napkins, empty glasses stained with cranberry juice. Taffeta hadn’t taken her eyes off Mandarin throughout the entire meal. Mandarin sat across from me, leaning back in her chair while Momma lit the candles on my cake. As with everything she cooked or baked, the cake was elaborate—three layers, the top one leaning slightly to the left.
“Shall we sing ‘Happy Birthday’?” she asked.
After a short pause, all three began to sing. Mandarin sang low and deadpan, while Momma sang high-pitched and off key. Taffeta’s miraculous voice was buried by the incompatible tones of the other two.
“Now!” Momma exclaimed when they’d finished. “How about a solo from Taffeta?”
When my sister finished her encore, there was a long silence. I tapped Mandarin