Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [80]
All of a sudden, I remembered the way she’d seemed to pick me out of the audience as I’d followed Mandarin out of the Benton High cafeteria.
I had abandoned her.
Taffeta’s throwing the pageant was all my fault.
I placed a pair of aspirin tablets in my mouth and tried to swallow. I didn’t think I could feel any worse. I should have known: no matter how bad you felt, you could always feel worse.
Momma was still ranting. “I’ve put every ounce of energy I have into your looks, your voice. Making you beautiful, making you important. You knew how hard I’d worked. Last night was a slap in the face, Taffeta, a slap in my face! This pageant was going to be it for us, the real beginning, and you ruined everything.
“How could you do that to me?”
For a moment, I didn’t know who I pitied more—Momma or Taffeta. Then Momma turned on me.
“I thought Taffeta was going to be different,” she said, “but the two of you are exactly alike. And now there’s no chance left! None!”
Without thinking, I hurled the bottle of aspirin.
It hit Momma’s chest, right in the center of a fuchsia hibiscus. The white pills ricocheted off the countertops like tiny bullets, bouncing all over the floor.
Momma gaped at me, stunned.
“Taffeta’s not a doll, Momma. She’s a real person. She may be six years old, but she’s got a mind of her own.…” I trailed off when I remembered the quarry party. How mindlessly I’d walked into Mandarin’s scheme. Who was I to talk?
“Grace Carpenter,” Momma sputtered, “I didn’t ask for your opinion!”
“Well, she needs somebody to speak up for her.” I went over to Taffeta and held out my arms. “Let’s go play Candy Land. I’ll even let you make the rules—”
“No!” Taffeta screamed.
I reeled in my arms as if she’d slapped them. She hopped off the counter and kicked the empty aspirin bottle as she ran from the room.
Momma and I stared at each other, both of us too thunder struck to speak.
School emerged like a pirate ship from a bank of storm clouds. I had no choice but to face it, even if it meant walking the plank.
I spent extra time getting ready Monday morning. I couldn’t wear one of Mandarin’s undershirts, or my jeans slung too low, because it would disregard all that had happened. But if I wore my normal clothes, everybody would suspect that my friendship with Mandarin was over. In the end, I wore my jeans at half-mast, under a simple gray T-shirt.
Fortunately, Mandarin didn’t show up to math.
She didn’t show up on Tuesday, either.
On Wednesday, Ms. Ingle asked me to stay after history. She had a new poster behind her desk: Rosie the Riveter in a red bandana, flexing her bicep. We Can Do It!
Do what? I wanted to ask.
“I hate to bring this up with you, Grace,” Ms. Ingle said. “But I don’t know who else would know. Have you any idea what’s going on with Mandarin?”
I tried to look nonchalant. “No. Why?”
“This is the third day this week Mandarin has missed history. And I had a talk with Mrs. Cleary this morning.” I pictured the two of them gossiping in the teachers’ lounge, Mrs. Cleary tapping her yellow nails on a chipped mug of coffee. “Mrs. Cleary says she hasn’t been showing up to math, either. And finals are next week.”
I stalled, rolling my palm over a wooden apple on Ms. Ingle’s desk until I realized what I was doing. I put my hands behind my back.
“I’m just concerned about her,” she said. “Mandarin’s missed some of the most critical prep sessions. And you’re the closest thing to a friend she’s got.”
How does she know?
“Small town,” Ms. Ingle explained, as if reading my mind. “Everybody knows.”
I tried to concentrate on maintaining a straight face. I wasn’t sure if I was about to burst into tears or hysterical laughter.
“Have you talked to her father?” I asked.
Ms. Ingle just looked at me.
“Never mind,” I said. “I guess it wouldn’t make any difference.”
“Then there’s the service project.” Ms. Ingle tipped her head to the side. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
I thought of