Like Mandarin by Kirsten Hubbard

from all the stamped-out cigarettes. “And I spend a lot of time in the badlands. Looking for rocks and things.”
    “No kidding?”
    She sounded genuinely surprised. I risked a glance up.
    “Like what kind of things? Like, arrowheads?”
    “Sure. Or like, fossils and …”
    Mandarin was on her hands and knees, reaching under her bed. She pulled out a jar filled with what looked like broken wedges of peanut brittle.
    They were arrowheads. Maybe fifty of them, all jumbled together. Did she have any idea how ancient they were? She should have wrapped them separately in soft cloth and tucked them carefully into a shoe box, like I did my rocks.
    Mandarin motioned me over. “What do you think?”
    She unscrewed the top of the jar and dumped the arrowheads onto her bed. Involuntarily, my hand shot out and grabbed one.
    “It’s perfect!” I exclaimed. “Look at it. Blue-white chalcedony, and not a single chip. Do you know how rare that is?”
    “No clue.”
    “It’s old, too. You can tell it’s old. Like ten thousand years. These aren’t even called arrowheads—they’re projectile points. They’re older than the bow and arrow.”
    I knew how much of a nerd I was being, but I couldn’t help it. At least Mandarin seemed interested.
    “Lemme see.” She stuck out her hand.
    I set the arrowhead on the cushion of her palm. She examined it thoughtfully. “Huh,” she said. “What do y’know.”
    “And this one! It’s tiger skin obsidian. My all-time favorite.” I held the amber-colored stone up to the light. “See the glow?”
    Mandarin tipped her head to the side. Her eyes were the same color as the arrowhead.
    “Where did you get all these?” I asked. I’d been hunting for years, and I’d only found seven. Only two unbroken, and even those were chipped.
    “Oh,” she said dismissively. “Around.” She swept the arrowheads back into the jar. I hoped she’d offer me one, but she didn’t. She set the jar on the floor and then flopped onto her bed. “Have a seat,” she ordered.
    “So, where do you want to start?” I asked, as if I hadn’t heard her. “The Pony Express?”
    “Start at the beginning. I’ve forgotten everything. How about cave people? Start with them.” She smacked the bed beside her. “Sit!”
    At last, like an obedient dog, I perched on the very edge of her bed. I thought I could feel the heat of her mattress through the fabric of my jeans. I shook my head and flipped open the history textbook in my lap.
    “You know, I don’t think cave people are in here,” I said. “And we’ve got math to cover too. And I have to be home for dinner by seven. My mother takes it seriously.”
    “What, dinner?”
    “Well, yeah … She likes to cook.”
    Mandarin sat up and peered at me, as if I were some strange specimen she’d collected in her arrowhead jar. “I bet you even sit around the table,” she said. “Wow. I ain’t had a family dinner like that—I don’t think ever, to tell you the truth. Then again, a well-meaning but drunk-ass dad and a shameful daughter ain’t much of a family. My mother killed herself before I moved to town.”
    “She did?”
    I recalled what I’d heard about Mandarin’s mother. Supposedly, they’d spent the first half of Mandarin’s life together, hopping from small town to small town in the southeastern corner of the state. Then, for reasons nobody knew, Mandarin moved in with her father in Washokey. About the mother herself, rumors were scarce.
    I’d definitely never heard she was dead .
    “Wanna know how she did it?” Mandarin asked.
    “How she …”
    “It was really gruesome—not for the faint of heart. You better sit down for this one.” She paused, as if I weren’t already sitting. “It happened in our old apartment. First, the cops found a noose made out of knotted-up dishrags, but my mother didn’t own enough to make a proper one. Then, in the hallway, they found a whole bunch of sleeping pills, but just over-the-counter