Like Mandarin by Kirsten Hubbard Page B

I clasped my trembling hands under the table, crossed my ankles. The top of my jeans bit into the flesh of my hips. I wanted to tug them up, to put on the sweatshirt balled in my tote bag. I felt eyes creeping over my skin like spider legs.
    How does Mandarin do this every single day?
    Mercifully, the loudspeaker beeped. As the other students settled down, I felt charged with a sudden surge of affection toward Mr. Beck.
    “May I have your attention, please. May I have your attention, please.”
    Several people groaned. Business as usual.
    “Good morning, everyone, on this magnificent Monday, April sixteenth, with the temperature in the low seventies. This is your principal, Mr. Beck. First news of the day: we’ve come up with a theme for the big spring dance.”
    The whispers rose to a crescendo, then quieted completely. For once, everyone was interested in what Mr. Beck had to say.
    At our high school, dances were huge . Mainly because Washokey evenings were particularly bland. Kids attended keggers out in the sticks, shot pool at the Old Washokey Sip Spot (where minors were allowed until ten), or lounged around the A&W. That was just about it. Dances, however, were the epitome of the High School Experience. I’d always wanted to attend one. Alexis & Co. had gone to homecoming, but I had pretended to be sick that week to avoid the awkwardness of inviting myself along. I might have sat with them at lunch, but we hadn’t hung out beyond the cafeteria since sixth or seventh grade.
    “The theme’s going to be …” Mr. Beck paused for dramatic effect. “Cowboy!”
    The class immediately toppled into chaos, shouts, laughter, the screech of desks. And though the school’s use of “Cowboy” as an allegedly original theme insulted my intelligence, I felt swept up in the excitement.
    “Hey, Alexis,” I called.
    Alexis turned to Paige, ignoring me. “Hey, isn’t Brandi on the dance committee?”
    Paige nodded. “If we want, you and me and Samantha can come in and help decorate. It’ll be so exciting!”
    Alexis glanced at me before scooting her desk farther away.
    It hurt. It really did, in the seconds before I remembered myself. Hurriedly, I readopted my insolent expression, my casual pose. Those girls didn’t matter. I was nothing like them.

    When the bell rang, Ms. Ingle called to me as I hurried from the classroom. I pretended not to hear her. I wanted to get to math early, because I didn’t want to run into Mandarin unprepared.
    It didn’t matter. Because she was standing right outside.
    She wore her lavender sweater, the one from the day she’d confronted me at the soda machine. It occurred to me that I was wearing purple too, that we matched, although she wasn’t showing nearly as much skin as me. Her thumbs were tucked into the back pockets of her jeans, her hair slung over one shoulder.
    I took a deep breath and walked over to her.
    “Morning,” she said. She didn’t mention my skimpy clothing, my loose, unbraided hair. “I missed you this weekend.”
    I beamed like crazy, even though it didn’t make any sense. Mandarin had my phone number. We all had everybody’s; the Washokey directory was more of a pamphlet than a book.
    “Hey, what’s her deal?” she asked suddenly.
    I followed the tilt of her chin to Ms. Ingle, who was waving at us from the doorway. I looked away quickly. “Wants to talk about service project stuff, I guess.”
    Mandarin waved back at her, pretending to mistake her gesture for a hello. “Geez, lady,” she muttered. “Drop it already. We’re on it, y’know?”
    She turned to me. “Ms. Ingle can be such a bitch. Don’t you think?”
    I hesitated. Ms. Ingle had never been anything but nice to me. She was nice to everybody, in that wishy-washy marshmallowy pushover way. Never in a million years would I ever consider her a bitch. But I wasn’t about to contradict Mandarin. Not this early in the game. So I nodded. “Yeah, Ms. Ingle’s a bitch.”
    To my surprise,