Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [73]
Is this it?
This very night? Without any warning at all. Would she? Of course she would—it was just like her. I commanded my heart: Careful, now.
“Leave town? You mean … Now? Like, this is it?”
Mandarin stared at me. Her face was dangerous. “What if it was?”
I tried as hard as I could to hold her stare. But fear won. I dropped my eyes. Just for a second, but it was enough.
Knowingly, Mandarin nodded.
But she didn’t look angry. Only resolute—maybe even self-satisfied. Probably because I’d proved her right. Silently, she thrust the key into the ignition. The engine vibrated but didn’t start. She tried again. Nothing.
“So where are we really going?” I asked when I found my voice.
“You’ll see.”
Mandarin twisted the key a third time, pumping the accelerator. At last the engine grunted to life. She slammed her foot down again and the truck shot onto the road.
Despite my shame, it didn’t take long for the drive to infect me. We were miles from home, halfway across the county. The radio sputtered out classic rock. Shadows the color of ripe plums pockmarked the landscape. I saw the occasional glow of far-off house lights, like solitary fireflies stuck fast in the darkness. The truck’s windows were rolled down, and the wind agitated our hair like playful fingers.
I felt ultra-conscious, hyperalert. And for the first time, I began to feel like maybe I could leave with Mandarin, just maybe. If this was what it entailed, I really could.
Maybe if the Scotsman truck didn’t rattle so much as Mandarin sped down the old highway. I could hardly imagine it taking us all the way to the coast.
“What a fucking gorgeous night!” I exclaimed. “On a night like this, doesn’t it feel like anything’s possible?”
“Anything,” Mandarin replied.
She watched as I pulled a cigarette from the pack on the dash. I stuck it into my mouth, then realized it wasn’t lit, and that I didn’t know how to smoke, anyway. I returned it to the pack. We crested a hill, and the wind gusted against the sides of the truck like sheets swinging from a clothesline. I caught a whiff of manure.
“Oh, gross.” Mandarin wrinkled her nose and reached for the crank handle. “Roll up your window, quick.”
I obliged, momentarily disenchanted.
The truck rumbled down the slope of the hill and into a vast, flat valley. Outside my window, the landscape grew rockier, thousands of years of geology sculpted by wildwinds and ancient seas. Because of the darkness, I didn’t recognize the terrain until I noticed a smear of light ahead.
“Wait,” I said. “That’s Washokey. Isn’t it?”
“Bingo,” Mandarin replied.
“Are we going back?” I tried to hide the disappointment in my voice. Nothing would kill my exhilaration more quickly than going home.
Mandarin checked her side mirror. “Eventually.”
“Well then, where are we going now?”
She didn’t answer. But then, unexpectedly, she swerved off the highway.
I held back a shriek as the truck bumped and banged for several yards before grinding to a stop. Although I hadn’t noticed them from the road, now I saw all the parked cars and pickup trucks. Beyond them, the land dropped away in some kind of canyon or gorge.
“We’re here,” Mandarin announced.
“Where’s here?”
“The quarry.”
“The quarry?” I had never been there before, though I’d heard of it. “What’s at the quarry?”
Mandarin flicked on the overhead light, making it hard to see out the windows. She reached across me and unlatched the glove compartment.
“What’s at the quarry?” I asked again as she pulled out a black cosmetic bag. She withdrew a compact, flipped it open, and handed it to me. I glanced at the brand name on the back of it: Femme Fatale Cosmetics, Inc. Had she taken it from my house, or bought it from Momma? I didn’t want to ask.
“Washokey’s in the quarry,” she said. “Washokey, in the flesh.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She handed me a black eyeliner pencil, then a tube of mascara. I cradled everything in the