Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [67]
“Okay,” I said, “now flip your head back and close your eyes. No, keep them closed.”
“Like this?”
“Good, but don’t talk.”
I tried to shoot from different angles, like the photography books recommended: on my stomach in front of her, kneeling at eye level, standing over her torso with my legs on either side. “Now we need another background,” I said.
Mandarin opened her eyes, and I stepped back. “Like where?”
I scanned our surroundings. “There’s a wood fence over there. Maybe you could, like, hang on it, or sit on it—”
“Perfect! Let’s go.”
Mandarin leaped up, grabbed my hand, and pulled me after her, bouncing down the slope of the horse pasture like a new foal. She hoisted herself atop the splintery fence. Then she leaned forward with her elbows on her thighs, her hair swinging.
“How’s this?”
In reply, I snapped two pictures. When I tried to snap a third, the camera clicked.
“Hey, I’m out of film,” I said, feeling professional. “I need to reload.”
Mandarin slid from the fence. While I tinkered with the camera, she wandered off, searching for a fresh background, I assumed. But when I glanced up few minutes later, I didn’t see her.
“Mandarin?”
I spun around, scanning the field. Where could she have disappeared to so quickly? I noticed a knot of ash trees near the canal and was about to head to them when I heard her shout from the barn: “Hey, Grace! Over here!”
I approached the gaping doorway nervously, thinking of Momma’s stories about Mr. Householder patting her butt or using a broom to lift her skirt when she entered the grocery store. Extra-gross, because he was twelve years older than her.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be in there,” I called. “Momma says Gary Householder’s a jerk.”
“Why can’t you just say asshole like everybody else? You’re such a fairy princess. Do you shit rainbows or what? Say ‘Gary Householder’s an asshole.’ ”
“Gary Householder’s an asshole,” I repeated, stepping inside the barn.
My eyes strained in the dark. I wove through a maze of debris: ancient rabbit hutches, bales of hay, sacks of animal feed coated in hill dust. Sinister-looking farming contraptions poked out of the mess, with rusted cogs, wheels, metal appendages like insect arms. Dust motes drifted in the light streaming through gaps in the twenty-foot ceiling.
“Seriously, Mandarin … This place gives me the creeps.”
“Just get over here. It’s worth it, I swear.”
“What’s worth—” I stubbed my toes on the rusty skeleton of a bedspring. A cloud of dust billowed into my face, making me cough.
At last I found Mandarin in the farthest corner, unfolding a stepladder. “Check it out,” she said, motioning with her chin. I glanced up and saw a meat hook jutting from the planks, draped with an old leather cowboy vest and hat.
“That old crap?” I scrunched up my face. “But they’re filthy, Mandarin. They’re disgusting.”
“You won’t be the one wearing them, you pansy.” She tottered up the stepladder and lugged them down.
“You’re actually going to put them on?”
Clutching the hat between her thighs, Mandarin shook out the vest—“for vermin,” she explained—and held it out before her. The stiff fringe sprouted from the hems like thorns. The leather was marbled and stained, probably with nasty old Householder sweat.
“It’ll be hot,” Mandarin said. “Like sexy cowgirl pictures. Playboy style. But I won’t be naked. See, I can take off my shirt, and the vest’ll cover my tits.” She slid the straps of her tank top from her shoulders.
I turned away to give her privacy. “But doesn’t it bother you? It’s a dead animal. What’s the difference between a leather vest and a trophy?”
“Photography is art,” she replied, like she hadn’t heard my question correctly. “And art’s all about taking chances. Taking risks. Otherwise you blend right in with the rest. No one will ever notice you. And look, I told you so! Sexy.”
I turned