Free Like Mandarin by Kirsten Hubbard Page B

evaporation and precipitation in elementary school. Didn’t all water come from the ocean at some point?
    “Let me explain. This canal goes into the Bighorn River, right?”
    “Right.”
    “And then the Bighorn becomes the Green River. And somewhere the Green River becomes the Colorado River. And eventually, the Colorado River goes into the Pacific Ocean.”
    An unseen animal crashed away in the undergrowth. Maybe another pheasant. Or a jackalope. I held back a giggle.
    “The Pacific Ocean,” Mandarin repeated. “That’s where I’m going when I leave town.”
    But I don’t want you to leave . “When you turn eighteen?”
    “Sooner. My birthday’s not till fall. And I won’t be any freer when I’m eighteen than I am now. I ain’t getting into any colleges, that’s for sure.”
    She was quiet after that. I thought about what she’d said. Though Momma hadn’t gone to college herself, I’d grown up knowing that it was a certain part of my future.
    What would I do if college wasn’t an option?
    I tipped my head toward Mandarin, studying her. Her hair drifted like seaweed, blacker than the water around it. She reminded me of Ophelia, floating down the river with the sky reflected in her eyes.
    “You see,” she said, “I’ve got a plan.”
    “You do?”
    “I just need to get some pictures taken. There’s lots of agents out there, in California—that’s where I want to be, by the beach and everything—and so I was thinking I could get into modeling. The pay is real good.”
    Modeling. Mandarin a model. How come I’d never thought of it before? No future was worthy of Mandarin but one strobe-lit with camera flashes.
    I realized I had grabbed her arm. Before she’d even righted herself, I yanked my hand away and hid it behind my back.
    “You have to,” I said. “It’s perfect, Mandarin. It’s the best idea I’ve ever heard.”
    “Do you really think so?” She sounded genuinely hopeful, like my opinion was of the utmost importance, maybe even decisive. “You think I could make it out there?”
    I could picture it. On the covers of magazines, Mandarin’s torso carving the space behind article titles. Her profile in ads for dangerous products—silver sports cars, cigarettes, liquor served in drawing rooms bloated with wine-colored tapestries. Her cheekbones slashed with bronze. Her bed hair perfected.
    California was the farthest possible place from our Washokey life. But didn’t small-town-girl success stories make the best headlines? What sweet revenge against everyone who called Mandarin worthless, a piece of trash. Not just a slap in the face, but a punch. A dropkick, an elbow to the gut. A stiletto between the legs.
    Of course, I knew that the odds of making it big were slim. And I knew that Mandarin in California meant no Mandarin in Washokey. But I wanted so badly to please her.
    “You’ll be great!” I exclaimed. “They’ll love you. You’ll be on the cover of everything.”
    “Well, that’s it, then! That’s my plan.”
    Mandarin laughed and spun like a water sprite, hands slicing the water, splashing me in dark sheets. I giggled and splashed her back, savoring her joy like a glass of icy water after a long walk in the badlands.

    As I crept through the living room, I glanced at the clock above the mantel. It was twenty minutes after four—the latest I’d ever been awake. But I was the only one.
    Nobody had noticed I’d been gone.
    The day before, it might have bothered me. But now I didn’t care. It didn’t matter anymore what Momma thought, whether Momma cared. Everything seemed to make sense as I lay under my single sheet, screaming silently and pounding my feet on the mattress, my wet hair fanned out over my pillow, the gray light in my window growing brighter with the arrival of day.
    Maybe I wasn’t anything like Mandarin right now.
    But I could be .
    I forced myself to forget the things that didn’t quite fit. Like the map of the Bighorn River I remembered from my