Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [75]
“Only if you’re having one,” I said.
“Maybe just one. Remember, I’m driving. I’m a responsible drinker. But we’re here for you. Get drunk! Live it up!”
I smiled weakly.
Mandarin nudged me through the space between the two bonfires. For a second, my entire body seemed to erupt into flames. On the other side sat the kegs, so old and dented they looked like discarded oil barrels. A lengthy line of people trailed from each. I began walking toward the back of the lines, but Mandarin caught my arm.
“I need some brewskies, boys,” she announced. “Who’ll pour?”
Instantly, three eager guys each filled a red plastic cup from the three respective kegs, practically slobbering with disbelief that Mandarin Ramey had deigned to speak to them. The two guys who finished first shoved their cups toward us. The third guy glanced at his cup, then took a swallow and wandered away.
I kept my eyes on Mandarin as I took my first sip of beer. I’d imagined a taste like root beer, but what filled my mouth was soapy and thick, with a bland and vaguely bitter flavor. I choked down a second swallow, because Mandarin was watching me and drinking more quickly. I didn’t want her to think I couldn’t keep up, so I took another swallow, then another.
Mandarin seemed to speed up even more.
I forced myself to relax my throat, swallowing hugely, my eyes locked on Mandarin’s, hers locked on mine.
“Whoa …” One of the guys beside us elbowed his friend. “Check out these bitches. They’re suckin’ down that beer like they ache for it. I’ll bet they’re wishin’ it was—”
Mandarin flung her cup at him. It clunked against his chest, flowers of beer darkening his shirt.
“Hey, man,” he shouted. “What the hell!”
“I’m not a man, dickface,” Mandarin said, “and I’m not a bitch, either.”
The guy held up his hands and backed off.
“There’s nothing to see!” another guy called to the gathering crowd. I recognized him—Joshua Mickelson, the crooked-nosed lifeguard who’d approached me in the cafeteria line with Tyler Worley. “What an asshole,” he said to us.
“Thanks,” Mandarin said unsmilingly.
Joshua edged closer to her. “Great party, huh? So when did you get here?”
I swallowed the last of my beer, feeling even more out of place. I was obviously not meant to be part of their conversation.
“Hey, Grace!”
I almost jumped. I needed to get used to hearing my name in improbable settings.
On the other side of the bonfires, Davey Miller waved enthusiastically. He looked as out of place as I probably did, in his tapered black jeans and oversized white sneakers. After a nod from Mandarin, I wound through the crowd in his direction, feeling unreasonably relieved.
“Davey! What’s up? What are you doing here?”
He wore a T-shirt featuring a David Bowie album cover. Probably not the best choice for this crowd. But it was far better than his usual shirts, which featured bad paintings of Indian maidens playing pan flutes, or wolves howling before the aurora borealis.
“I came with my next-door neighbor,” he replied. “You know Ricky. As soon as we got here, though, he ran off with some girl. He told our moms we were going to a movie.… I should have known I was just a decoy. Guess you came with Mandarin?”
“Of course,” I said smugly. I hoped I’d never grow used to it, being Mandarin Ramey’s friend. “So where’d you get that shirt?”
He looked sheepish. “It was Ricky’s idea. I guess I was trying to fit in or something. Dumb, huh? As if it were that easy.”
“Oh, I know! That’s why I’m glad Mandarin and I are different from everyone else.”
“Different? How so?”
I squinted at him. “Well, I mean, obviously. We’re not like them. Just look at us.”
“I guess,” Davey said, but he still appeared unconvinced.
I was about to ask him what his deal was. But suddenly, there was a hot mouth at my ear, speaking so low that I felt rather than heard the words.
“Need a refill?”
I cupped a hand over my ear involuntarily and turned to face Tyler Worley.
He had floppy brown hair