Read Online Like Mandarin by Kirsten Hubbard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kirsten Hubbard
Tags: United States, Fiction, General, People & Places, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Family Life, Siblings, Friendship, Schools, Families, best friends, High schools, Female friendship, Sisters, Dysfunctional families, Wyoming, Family Problems, Families - Wyoming, Family Life - Wyoming
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see it through the chinks in my backyard fence as it hunched along, saturating the air with poison.
I remained at the window until the truck rounded the corner. The roar faded into a dull rumble. Now the crickets were silent.
I’d forgotten that spring brought mosquitoes, followed by the pesticide trucks to destroy them. Spring also brought the cottonwood snow that stuck to the bottoms of my shoes. It brought the agony of fire-ant bites, the crash-shatter of thunderstorms, and the dread of another sunburned summer. Three endless months with nothing for me to do except reread old books and accompany Momma and Taffeta on pageant trips.
Even more than summer, I dreaded that first yellow cottonwood leaf in August, which meant autumn, and the start of school. At least school filled my time.
Most of all, I dreaded Washokey’s winters. The chapped hands, the puddles in the hallways, the searing winds during our walk to school. The burny belch of radiators, making our classrooms reek like wet dog. And the two dreary weeks of holidays I spent cooped up with my mother. It took centuries for spring to arrive.
Spring—which I dreaded.
I dreaded every season. How tragically depressing. Like when I sat in class, staring at the clock, willing the second hand to move faster. Until I remembered I had no place to go. Not until college, at least.
As long as I lived in Washokey, would there be nothing for me to look forward to?
I stared out the window, both my hands gripping the sill. In our backyard, which we rarely used, I saw a plastic baby pool filled with stagnant brown rainwater. My rusty bicycle, half hidden by dry grass. A pair of Taffeta’s old red pageant shoes.
I sighed, then crossed the room and fell back onto my bed.
I found myself thinking about an incident in seventh grade. A bird had somehow flown into the busy cafeteria during lunchtime. He darted from one side of the room to the other, flying faster and faster, until at last he slammed into one of the enormous windows. Then he picked himself up, dove across the room, and slammed into the opposite window. Thunk . He did it again, and again. The cafeteria was filled with hoots and laughter while the bird wrecked himself against the deceptive square of sky. I’d wanted to shout at everyone, to shut them up. But even if they’d heard me, no one would have listened.
Right now I felt like that bird.
Mandarin’s words flared back to me all of a sudden, as if she were flitting back and forth across the dark room beside me, beseeching: We’re two of a kind. I can feel it .
But how did she know?
And then I remembered: she had read my essay.
Sure, I’d written it for the judges. But there were some truths, too. Things I didn’t quite believe but wanted to. About how we all had leaders inside us. And we couldn’t let other people hold us back. Because that first step into the future had to be ours alone.
Before I fully realized I was moving, I’d jumped up, yanked open my dresser drawer, and thrown on my clothes over my pajamas. I shoved my desk chair over to the window. Heaving it open, I climbed from the chair onto the sill. I lowered myself until my feet were dangling in the open air, over the ground almost ten feet below.
I hung there for a moment, my heart thumping.
Then I let go.
Although the county dump was only a couple of minutes out of town, the alley behind Main Street was littered with discarded couches, avocado-colored appliances, and Dumpsters overflowing with trash. Drops of sweat rolled down my back as I jogged down the alley, dodging the forsaken debris.
I passed behind the hospital where we’d all been born: a two-story house converted into a clinic. Next came the row of offices for mining companies and telecommunications, the gas station, and the Sundrop Quik Stop. The grocery store was on the other side of the street, along with the Buffalo Grill, the bank with an ATM no one trusted, and a solitary clothing shop that also sold souvenirs
I remained at the window until the truck rounded the corner. The roar faded into a dull rumble. Now the crickets were silent.
I’d forgotten that spring brought mosquitoes, followed by the pesticide trucks to destroy them. Spring also brought the cottonwood snow that stuck to the bottoms of my shoes. It brought the agony of fire-ant bites, the crash-shatter of thunderstorms, and the dread of another sunburned summer. Three endless months with nothing for me to do except reread old books and accompany Momma and Taffeta on pageant trips.
Even more than summer, I dreaded that first yellow cottonwood leaf in August, which meant autumn, and the start of school. At least school filled my time.
Most of all, I dreaded Washokey’s winters. The chapped hands, the puddles in the hallways, the searing winds during our walk to school. The burny belch of radiators, making our classrooms reek like wet dog. And the two dreary weeks of holidays I spent cooped up with my mother. It took centuries for spring to arrive.
Spring—which I dreaded.
I dreaded every season. How tragically depressing. Like when I sat in class, staring at the clock, willing the second hand to move faster. Until I remembered I had no place to go. Not until college, at least.
As long as I lived in Washokey, would there be nothing for me to look forward to?
I stared out the window, both my hands gripping the sill. In our backyard, which we rarely used, I saw a plastic baby pool filled with stagnant brown rainwater. My rusty bicycle, half hidden by dry grass. A pair of Taffeta’s old red pageant shoes.
I sighed, then crossed the room and fell back onto my bed.
I found myself thinking about an incident in seventh grade. A bird had somehow flown into the busy cafeteria during lunchtime. He darted from one side of the room to the other, flying faster and faster, until at last he slammed into one of the enormous windows. Then he picked himself up, dove across the room, and slammed into the opposite window. Thunk . He did it again, and again. The cafeteria was filled with hoots and laughter while the bird wrecked himself against the deceptive square of sky. I’d wanted to shout at everyone, to shut them up. But even if they’d heard me, no one would have listened.
Right now I felt like that bird.
Mandarin’s words flared back to me all of a sudden, as if she were flitting back and forth across the dark room beside me, beseeching: We’re two of a kind. I can feel it .
But how did she know?
And then I remembered: she had read my essay.
Sure, I’d written it for the judges. But there were some truths, too. Things I didn’t quite believe but wanted to. About how we all had leaders inside us. And we couldn’t let other people hold us back. Because that first step into the future had to be ours alone.
Before I fully realized I was moving, I’d jumped up, yanked open my dresser drawer, and thrown on my clothes over my pajamas. I shoved my desk chair over to the window. Heaving it open, I climbed from the chair onto the sill. I lowered myself until my feet were dangling in the open air, over the ground almost ten feet below.
I hung there for a moment, my heart thumping.
Then I let go.
Although the county dump was only a couple of minutes out of town, the alley behind Main Street was littered with discarded couches, avocado-colored appliances, and Dumpsters overflowing with trash. Drops of sweat rolled down my back as I jogged down the alley, dodging the forsaken debris.
I passed behind the hospital where we’d all been born: a two-story house converted into a clinic. Next came the row of offices for mining companies and telecommunications, the gas station, and the Sundrop Quik Stop. The grocery store was on the other side of the street, along with the Buffalo Grill, the bank with an ATM no one trusted, and a solitary clothing shop that also sold souvenirs
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