Like Mandarin

by Kirsten Hubbard

  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 folds of my dress.

  “Don’t just stare at everything. Put it on. We’re gonna whore you out tonight.”

  I paused, then laughed uncertainly. “What are we really doing?”

  “I’m being serious. I know you’d like to meet a guy, and this is the best place I know to catch one. Besides the bar, of course.” She handed me a makeup brush.

  “But …”

  But what? I knew I couldn’t protest after I’d worked so hard to be like Mandarin. I’d told myself a million times I’d follow her lead anyplace, any which way, if only she’d agree to lead me. “It’s just …,” I began again. “You know I’ve never …”

  “Obviously.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’ve never even kissed a guy.”

  “No big deal. Although …” Mandarin looked at me, her expression intense. “Do you want to practice first?”

  I stared at her a little too long. Then she laughed, and I looked away.

  “You’ll be fine!” she said. “Quit worrying. Just ditch that idiotic bumblebee sash.”

  The story behind the Washokey quarry was another one of those local legends, like the Virgin Mary rock, documented in self-published books available at Wyoming souvenir shops.

  The quarry, so the story went, had been carved sixty years earlier by a single obsessive-compulsive man with a desire to dig. What he’d expected to find wasn’t clear. Some people claimed diamonds. Others said gold, oil, or dinosaur bones. After a decade and a half of digging, the man suffered a heart attack. It took weeks for his son to find his body, still propped atop his shovel. Since he had never found whatever substance he’d sought, he was said to haunt the quarry forever after, et cetera, et cetera.

  All his work had been futile, anyway. The only substance worth mining in the Washokey Badlands Basin was boring old bentonite—mineral rubbish used as a filler in candy and lipstick. Probably including Frisky Flamingo and What in Carnation.

  Nature had since reclaimed the quarry. Because it collected rainwater and winter melt, it served as a sort of badlands oasis. Its edges were crowded with cottonwoods and scraggly shrubs. The center was perfect for beer bashes.

  Or so I’d heard.

  Music echoed off the walls as Mandarin and I descended the hand-carved steps running down the quarry’s side. Shadows cast by the twin bonfires flickered all around us. I concentrated on placing my ill-fitting high heels on rocks I hoped wouldn’t dislodge, willing myself to look at my feet instead of the people below.

  Once we reached the bottom, Mandarin led me through the crowd. Everybody from school was there. Or at least, all the upperclassmen. I glimpsed a few freshmen and sophomores and was thankful Alexis & Co. seemed to be missing, though I did see Brandi Shelmerdine. I recognized Kate Cunningham, and Peter Shaw, and Joshua Mickelson, and Tag Leeland, and other juniors and seniors from homeroom.

  It was so bizarre that parties like this existed—and had always existed. All these everyday faces congregating and having the time of their lives, without my even knowing.

  There were strangers, too. “Kids from other towns,” Mandarin told me. “They come all the way from Worland and Thermopolis and Benton. Our quarry’s the best.”

  I wondered if I should feel proud.

  Everybody stared as Mandarin walked by. But how could they not? Her skin looked flawless in the dark, her hair impossibly black. The firelight made her hazel eyes flash. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d crouched on all fours and roared, her true primal self revealed.

  Meanwhile, I clung to her finger as if it were a twig on a cliffside, the only thing anchoring me above a bottomless pit. Without the sash, my dress looked like a skanky nightgown, swishing around my bare legs. I tried to saunter, but my heels snagged on the uneven ground. Every time I blinked, Mandarin’s mascara threatened to fasten my eyes shut.

  I felt like at any minute, somebody would call me out: “What is she doing here?”

  It seemed like forever until we emerged from the far sideb of the crowd. Mandarin pulled me closer. “Want me to get you a beer?”

  I’d never tasted beer before. I’d never even had the chance to. Momma didn’t keep alcohol in the house, and though I suspected that Alexis & Co. had sampled their share, they’d never invited me to partake.

  “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 and an unshaved jaw and stood at least eight inches taller than me. I had never been close to so much male at once. I breathed deep, bonfire smoke heating me from the inside out. Davey was forgotten as Tyler took my hand.

  At the keg, he filled my cup like an expert. “Did you see that? A perfect pour. Not any head at all.”

  I had no idea what he meant, and didn’t want to ask. “Um, beautiful.”

  “That’s why they call me Pourmaster. Naw, but seriously, I’d make a great bartender, don’t you think?”

  “If that’s what you want to be,” I said, thinking of Solomon Ramey.

  “Why not? It’s, like, the perfect job. I could sleep during the daytime. At night I’d get to serve myself for free, plus any sexy ladies that come wandering in.” He winked and knocked me with his hip. I brought one hand to my face, trying to cover my flushed cheeks. I’d never thought flirting would be so … embarrassing.

  “Well, I won’t be twenty-one for ages.”

  “You think that’d stop me from serving you? Didn’t I just?”

  I spotted Mandarin through the gap between the fires. Joshua stood beside her, his lips still moving, but her eyes were on me. I raised my beer in salute.

  “Earth to Grace,” Tyler said. “What’re you staring at?”

  I looked at him, surprised. “I didn’t think I told you my name.”

  He took a swallow of beer before speaking. “We go to the same school, don’t we?”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right.”

  I raised my cup again, tapping it against his. This time, I didn’t mind the taste so much. A new song came on and people cheered, including Tyler.

  “Hell yeah! This is a great song. Dance with me?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the kegs and fires, into the surging forest of silhouettes. Before I knew it, we were dancing—or, more accurately, swaying together, as the crowd made it difficult to do much more than that.

  All of a sudden, Earl Barnaby staggered into us, arms flailing. I squealed, then clapped a hand to my mouth, shocked that such a sound had come from my own vocal cords.

  “What the hell’s your deal?” Tyler demanded.

  “It’s okay,” Earl slurred, his words thick and wet. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m all right. Look here, I got somethin’ for you an’ your girl.” He held out a thin metal flask.

  Without questioning the contents, Tyler unscrewed the tiny cap and drank. “You want?” he said to me, wiping his mouth.

  I stared at the flask. I’d never seen one up close. It was one of those foreign objects of adulthood, like condoms or marijuana pipes. The reflections of the dancers around us crawled on the metal surface. “It’s just that … I’ve never …”

  “Just swallow fast. It’s apple juice, all right?”

  Still, I hesitated. Beer was one thing. Mystery liquid from Earl Barnaby’s flask was another landscape entirely. And what was old Earl doing at a quarry party, anyway? I glanced over my shoulder, but I couldn’t find Mandarin. I was on my own.

  What would Mandarin do?

  Well, of course. And suddenly, I knew why she’d brought me to this party in the first place: she was testing me, yet again. I was sure of it. She was probably watching right that second, camouflaged among the drunken faces, anticipating my reaction.

  I accepted the flask. It felt heavy in my hand, and the mystery liquid sloshed when I shook it. I took a deep breath, tipped my head, and poured. Forget apple juice. It was like drinking molten bonfire, the taste and the burn.

  “How about we get out of here?” Tyler suggested.

  Instead of answering, I took another swallow.

  The clamor of the party sounded muffled and tinny, as if piped in from a distant radio. Louder were the sounds of crickets, the rush of the river, and the night wind disturbing pebbles and sending them tickling off the surface of the Tombs. Against the largest boulder, Tyler had me caged, his mouth shoved wetly into mine.

  Once we had finished Earl Barnaby’s flask, Tyler had led me to his pickup truck. “My first!” he’d declared.

  It struck me as hi
larious that he was so certain he’d own a succession of pickups throughout the rest of his life. Classic Washokey.

  A prehistoric country song wailed from the speakers as soon as he turned on the engine, which made me laugh a second time. Garth Brooks, or Willie Nelson. I never knew the difference. Actually, almost everything seemed funny: the way Tyler yawned before snaking his arm over the top of the seat. The briefness of our journey: just a minute on the highway, and we arrived at the Tombs, much closer to the quarry than I’d imagined. How comical that I’d never known.

  I wasn’t laughing now.

  I’d long since lost track of the minutes that had passed since Tyler had brought me to the Tombs, no more than fifteen feet from my personal Someplace Magic. It seemed like hours before he released me, wiping his brow with his wrist. I slipped beneath his arm and staggered away. The world swayed in the opposite direction. My cheeks were numb, my chin scraped raw from his stubble. I could scarcely feel my lips at all. My head felt stuffed with cotton and my mouth was sour with the acidic after-tang of Earl’s whiskey. I would have spit if I could have moved my lips.

  I wanted to crawl beneath my comforter, to pull my sheet over my ear, to forget Mandarin’s test, to forget everything.

  But then Tyler reeled me in again. This time, his rough palm crept under the hem of my dress, sliding up my thigh.

  “Tyler …,” I protested from the corner of my mouth.

  “Shhh,” he said.

  I pulled back an inch. “Tyler …”

  “Shhh … Just relax. It’s all right.”

  If I can just get through this, I told myself, I’ll be all right. I thought of the Virgin Mary rock, somewhere in the jumble of boulders above me. I tried to picture her face, but I couldn’t. My memory was blurry, as if someone had smudged the ancient paint.

  “It’s getting late. Let’s go back, all right?” I begged.

  “Come on, girl. You wanna be like your friend Mandarin, don’t you?”

  He was right. But I wrenched away anyway, stumbling the last few feet to the edge of the river.

  Escape! Dive in and swim for the other shore!

  Instead, I knelt on the bank, my shoulders tensing in expectation of Tyler’s hands. When they didn’t come, I pushed back my sweaty bangs, feeling the base of my palm smear Mandarin’s eyeliner. I wanted to throw up, but the sick taste in my mouth didn’t seem to be connected to the commotion in my stomach.