Like Mandarin - Kirsten Hubbard [82]
I followed one of the water trails tapering into the hills. The only sounds were the crunching of my shoes, the occasional low-pitched buzz of an insect, and the hush of a gentle wind—not the slightest bit wild—ruffling the dry grasses and shrubs. As I stopped at a crest, gazing out at the gradients of blue hills, brown hills, gray hills, I thought, Mandarin would have loved it out here.
Because despite the silence, the badlands didn’t only contain dead things. On my walks, I’d seen ground squirrels and jackrabbits, rattlesnakes, and hawks soaring over prairies of salt sage, the kind we used to chew as little kids. I’d seen oases, where the water burbled up from underground and green things grew. And summer grasshoppers that popped away from my feet like water tossed onto a hot skillet.
I’d been so cautious about sharing my magic places, I hadn’t showed Mandarin any. Not the badlands. And not the Tombs. Not the Virgin Mary rock. Or any of my rocks.
I had called Mandarin selfish. But maybe in my own way, I was selfish too.
I didn’t start back until the midday sun became so hot my blood practically simmered in my ears. Although home life had rarely been pleasant, after the fiasco at the tri-county pageant, an uneasy cloud had seemed to envelop our entire house.
Without pageants pending, Momma didn’t know what to do with herself. She wandered from room to room, up the stairs and down. She drank so much coffee I wondered why she didn’t go into cardiac arrest. She started meals but didn’t finish them, leaving the ingredients all over the counter. When we passed each other in the kitchen, it was hard to tell who was giving the silent treatment to whom.
Really, Momma and I were just stalling. Like boxers in their respective corners before a match began, each waiting for the other to make the first move. If there had been just the two of us, the dance could have gone on forever. But there was a third contestant in the ring neither of us had anticipated.
I had just climbed out of the shower when I heard a splashing sound. At first, I thought I had water in my ears. Then I glanced out the bathroom window and spied Taffeta in the backyard, which was strange for several reasons.
First, our backyard was a disaster: an overgrown wasteland of broken toys and weeds. My sister seldom played out there, especially since the Millers had a swing set complete with monkey bars and a faux rock-climbing wall.
Second, she was wearing her tri-county pageant dress, along with her Little Miss Washokey tiara.
Third, she was sitting in the baby pool.
I wasn’t sure whether I should be concerned or delighted. In my room, I pulled on a T-shirt and underpants. Then I flew down the stairs, jerked open the sliding glass door, and stepped outside.
“Taffeta! What the heck’s going on?”
My sister didn’t answer. She sat with her chin on her fist, like that sculpture The Thinker. Her uncombed hair straggled down her back. The murky rainwater from the baby pool had soaked into her dress, staining it the color of grease.
“Did you put all that on yourself?”
She still didn’t answer.
“I didn’t think you had it in you.” I knelt beside her. “Guess I shouldn’t have underestimated you. When you want to, you can be a real stubborn brat.”
No reply.
“I mean that in a good way.” I offered her my hand. “Look, Taffeta. I’m sorry I left your pageant early. Truly sorry. So you’ve made your point. Will you get out now?”
She shook her head. At least it was a response.
I prodded the earth in front of me until I found a stone. With my thumbnail, I began to scrape away the dirt.
“This reminds me of last winter, when you begged me to push you on the swings. Remember? I didn’t want to, because it was so windy. But you kept whining, so I finally gave in.”
My sister shifted in the water. I could tell she was listening.
“So I pushed you. And soon the wind picked up, just like I said it would, and you started swinging all crooked. You wanted off. But your mittens stuck to the chains. Don’t you remember? We