Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [71]
Mandarin and her mother had no relationship, other than the mysterious letters and a jar of arrowheads. Momma and I didn’t have much more than that. Or so I told myself. Ever since I’d screwed up Little Miss Washokey and Momma and I had grown apart, I’d felt cheated. But what was worse—our distance or the syrupy overflow of mothering slathered on these tiny girls?
And who was it really all about, anyway—the children or their mothers?
At last I spied my sister. Dressed in nothing but pink lace underwear, she was practicing her wave. Momma stood behind her, fastening her corkscrew curls into a Marie Antoinette updo. Bobby pins protruded from her lips like fangs.
I cleared my throat. “Momma?”
“That wasn’t bad!” she said to Taffeta, spraying pins from her mouth. “Not bad at all. But you’re not sucking in your stomach, baby doll. I can tell.”
“Yes I am.” Taffeta glanced at me.
“Potbellies are for four-year-olds. Did you see the figure on that redhead? You’ve got to remember: suck in, suck in, suck in. Think it in your head at all times. Like a drumbeat, playing behind your song.”
“Momma, she—”
“We don’t have much time left,” she said, ignoring me. She slid the pageant dress from its hanger. “Ups-a-daisy.”
Obediently, Taffeta raised her arms. The dress settled around her like a fallen flower. Momma knelt to tuck her feet into tiny gold pumps. Then she stood and surveyed Taffeta appreciatively.
“I’ve done the best I can. The rest is up to you. All you’ve got to do is remember to suck in. And don’t stumble on your Italian accent, not even for a second. Give me a note.”
Taffeta glanced at me again.
“Momma, lay off,” I said. “There are too many people around.”
“I need to check her pitch,” Momma said. “Sing, Taffeta. Sing.”
Taffeta blinked hard, like Davey Miller. I imagined her bawling, mashing her fists into her eyes, all her perfect makeup gushing black and wet down her rouge-tinted cheeks. There wouldn’t be enough time to repair the mess she’d make. Mentally, I cheered her on: Cry, Taffeta! Cry your eyes out.
As if she could read my mind, she shook her head. She lifted her chest, sucked in her tummy, and belted out a tune.
The cafeteria sweltered with other people’s breath. I longed to remove my cardigan, but I didn’t want anyone to stare at my unnaturally inflated chest.
We stood elbow to elbow in the front row of cafeteria benches, listening to the pageant contestants shout the national anthem. My hand drooped from its position over my heart. Momma mouthed the words along with the girls, her cheeks flushed with patriotic passion. Thank goodness she didn’t try to sing. I tried and failed to find my sister’s voice in the dissonance.
The song ended, and the crowd rustled into their seats. All the people in our row sat with their backs to the cafeteria tables, facing forward. I sat backward with my elbows on the table. I would be a silent protestor, I decided, like Gandhi.
Momma jabbed me in the side. “Turn around! Don’t you want to support your sister?”
Grudgingly, I turned.
Onstage, the little girls had lined up against a blue velvet curtain. Taffeta was third from the end. So these were all the small-town pageant winners. I wasn’t surprised to see that every girl was white. The announcer, whom I’d seen backstage, was a lumpy-looking man with shifty eyes and a black mustache. Why did these creeps get involved with kids’ pageants, anyway?
On second thought, I didn’t want to know.
The man strolled to the front of the stage and took the microphone. “Good evening!” he exclaimed. Several members of the audience lamely shouted back. Still, it was a better response than Mr. Beck had ever received. “Welcome to the tri-county pageant! My name is Mr. Ferber. I’m overjoyed to be here, and I’m sure you all feel the same way.”
“Notice he’s not speaking to the contestants,” I said.
Momma glanced at me. “What did you say?”
“And now I’ll introduce our little princesses one by one: the superstars of the tri-county area.” Mr. Ferber motioned