Free Like Mandarin by Kirsten Hubbard

bank, our feet in the water.
    “And everybody starts looking around, all of us thinking the same thing: ‘What’s that god-awful stink?’ ” Mandarin brought her cigarette to her lips and took a quick pull before continuing her story.
    “Then we notice the farmer. One of the hills variety. The type of guy who looks all blinky and weird when you see him in the grocery store, like the lights are too bright for him.”
    I nodded in recognition.
    “He’s wearing these big rubber farm boots, and they’re completely caked with shit—so much his legs look like big hairy monster paws. Like, every possible kind of livestock manure. Cattle, sheep, chickens. Probably even elephant and brontosaurus. He sees everybody staring his way, and for a second it seems like he might take off. But instead, he comes over to me and he mumbles, ‘Can I get a whiskey and water?’ ”
    I giggled. “No explanation?”
    “No! No apology or nothing.” Mandarin kicked up one submerged ankle, sending water flickering across the surface. “And then I—Hey, look!”
    At first I thought she was pointing at the rusted corpse of a car partially hidden in the reeds across the canal. Then I saw the bird with feathers like autumn leaves rummaging through the undergrowth.
    “That’s a pheasant,” Mandarin told me.
    “I know,” I said.
    Too late I wondered if I should have pretended not to know—the way I did in class so no one would think I was trying to show off.
    “Once, I had to do an art project out of their feathers,” I said quickly, “when I was a little kid. I hope they didn’t have to kill one, you know, for the project. But I made a tiger, from all the striped feathers pasted on construction paper. Fangs from candy corn. My mother was angry when I brought it home. She thought I should have made a bunny, something cute.”
    I brought my fingers to my lips. The story had burst out on its own, as if it had been churning in my throat all this time. Maybe that was what happened when you had nobody to talk to. Thoughts and memories kept piling up, and when you finally had an outlet, they all came flooding out, like the river when they opened the sluice gates into the canal. Whoosh .
    “It figures,” Mandarin said. “Parents got nothing better to do in this town than interfere. Sometimes it’s enough to make me glad my own mom’s dead.”
    She pulled the rubber band from her hair and shot it into the water, splintering her reflection into a thousand tiny ripples. The pheasant screeched and bustled away.
    “Scram, before the hunters get you,” she said. “I love those stupid birds. They’re one of the only good things about living in Washokey.”
    I mustered up my courage and asked, “Why do you hate it here so much?”
    “Well, for one thing, the way the stupid macho assholes in this town take anything that’s beautiful and free and then shoot it.”
    I felt a little stunned. Hunting was Washokey’s favorite pastime, and belittling it was one of Washokey’s greatest taboos. Almost everybody hunted. I’d even seen a photo of Momma in an orange hunting vest when she was about my age. Her father had been a hunter. And his father. Back forever. I hadn’t thought about the act of hunting much. But I knew I hated the mounted animal heads decorating Washokey businesses.
    “The trophies are the worst,” I said.
    “Right!” Mandarin nodded emphatically, as if our crossroads of opinions were a celestial coincidence. “Like a severed head’s a thing to brag about. It’s sick. Displayed right above the food in the grocery store, and over the tables at the Buffalo Grill—like they’re supposed to make us hungry. And what’s worst of all is when they play mad scientist and glue parts from different animals together. Like jackalopes. As if nature ain’t creative enough herself.”
    “So why else?” I asked.
    “Why else what?”
    “Why else do you hate Washokey?”
    Mandarin stood. For a moment, I thought that I’d asked