Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [69]
But I knew it was time. Time to tell her that I knew the truth, about the envelope and arrowheads, and that her lie didn’t matter to me—because after all, when it came to bastard parentage, I wasn’t any better.
I cleared my throat. “Mandarin …”
When she didn’t answer, I squatted beside her and took a deep breath. “Mandarin, I know about your mother. I know she’s sending you arrowheads.”
Her shoulders stilled. Slowly, she lifted her face. “What?”
“I saw an envelope.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you say so?”
“I don’t know.” I rushed to explain. “It was after our fight. And … I guess I figured you had your reasons for keeping it a secret.”
Mandarin stared at me a moment longer, her frightening eyes spearing mine.
Then she unclenched the tank top from her first. It was so crumpled it looked like crushed velvet. “She claimed she didn’t have the money to take care of me proper,” she said, yanking on her shirt. “And she wasn’t in the right mental state. I didn’t give a damn about that as a kid or now, but she insisted. I haven’t seen her since.”
“But the letters …”
“I don’t even read her damn letters. They just remind me how much I hate her for leaving me here in this horseshit town.”
She didn’t even read them?
It seemed so immature. Like Taffeta’s plugging her ears when I ordered her from my bedroom. It was as if Mandarin felt validated by their rift. As long as she ignored her mother’s efforts, Mandarin could continue believing she was the one who’d been wronged.
Just when I was about to voice my frustration, she pressed her face into her arms and began to sob.
“Why do I let them get to me? Why do I let them? I just can’t understand how anybody could hate me so much without even knowing me.”
My heart felt stuck in my throat. “Gary Householder’s an asshole.” Tentatively, I touched her shoulder. “Remember? What he says means nothing, okay? He’s just a stupid asshole hick with sheep shit for brains, who gets off on making people feel as small as he is.”
Mandarin looked up at me again. Eyeliner streamed from her red eyes. She was an entirely different creature, spoiled by tears. “Get a clue, Grace. They’re all like that.”
“Who are all like that?”
“People,” she said. “People in Washokey. They take, take, take, with no mind for anybody else. If you get in the way of their fun, they’ll run you down and squash you.”
“Come on. No they’re not! That’s impossible. They can’t all be.”
“You have no fucking idea.”
The words came out in a snarl. I jerked my hand away as she turned and stared across the water, her mouth a tense gash. And then she turned to me, suddenly inspired. “I know,” she said.
“What?”
“I know what to do.”
“To do? What do you mean, Mandarin?”
“I’ve figured it out. How to show you. To prove to you how they really are. All of them, in this town. To show you why we’ve got to escape before we’re eaten alive.”
I fought to breathe normally.
“I keep forgetting how young you are, and how much you haven’t seen. No wonder you act like leaving’s a joke. You got no idea about the real Washokey. About what places like this turn people into. If I don’t prepare you, when it finally hits you, you won’t be getting back up.”
“Mandarin, you don’t need to prove anything to me.… I already believe you!”
“No you don’t,” she said. “But trust me. You will.”
My dress was an old white one of Momma’s, with spaghetti straps that tied over the shoulders and a sash abuzz with embroidered bees. The cups were so thickly padded it looked like I’d stuffed two rolled-up socks into my top. I complained until Momma let me wear a white cardigan to hide them. She’d somehow found the time to french-braid my hair, same as hers.
We had to look immaculate, like a family unit. When Taffeta won first place in the tri-county pageant, Momma said, we’d all be invited onstage.
I sat in the backseat of the car with a pair of secondhand high heels on my lap. My sister’s feathery pageant dress—white, with familiar-looking puffy lilac sleeves—dangled from a hanger beside