Mango Delight

by Fracaswell Hyman

  Staggered to be introduced as her “best friend” I actually gulped as Mrs. Trueheart-Pinkey reached out her diamond ring–studded hand. I said, “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Pinkey,” and—I can’t believe it—I actually curtsied for the first time in my life.

  My attempt at a curtsey was a little wobbly, but I guess it was okay because Mrs. Pinkey said, “Charming. You are such a charming young girl. No wonder they named you Delight. Would you mind if I referred to you by your middle name?”

  “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

  She moved in closer, and I was kind of bewildered when she reached out and ran her diamond-clad fingers through my Afro puff. “Nice, healthy, thick hair. Outstanding. We have a product line called Silky Siren that would relax your hair and lengthen it … down to below your shoulder blades. Would you like to try it? We have plenty of samples in the basement salon.”

  “That’s very kind of you, ma’am, but my mom won’t let me use chemical relaxers in my hair.”

  “Don’t tell me—she wears an Afro?”

  “No. Uh. Dreadlocks.”

  Mrs. Pinkey’s diamond-clad fingers landed on the collar of her blouse, her head tilted back, and she took a breath as though she were counting to ten before saying anything that might appear offensive. “Well. To each her own. N’est-ce pas?”

  As she headed back to the library, she fluttered her fingers just like Hailey Joanne and said, “I look forward to seeing you again very soon, Delight.”

  As her mother disappeared down the corridor, Hailey Joanne whispered, “She so pisses me off. Do you know why she called me into the library?”

  “No… .”

  “Last Friday, I told her I didn’t want Minelli’s to cater my birthday party because Brooklyn is such a B, and I don’t mean the first letter in her name. She went out and got a phone that was better than mine after I helped her pick out her first phone, the one you destroyed. I know she did that on purpose so she could act like she was better than me. Then she got an attitude when I told her I posted your audition on YouTube. She was planning on posting it if you’d flopped, but you were great, and she didn’t want anyone to see that. Have you ever heard of anyone so mean? I mean, we should be proud of you! Then she goes and transfers to Islington. I know she did that just so she can race against me in the GOT 5K. Have you ever heard of anything so petty and super competitive?”

  Before I could answer her, Hailey Joanne pointed at the curved staircase to the right. “You go over there. I’ll race you to the top.” The second I got to the staircase, she shouted, “Go!” Up we went, as fast as we could go. Because of my long legs, I could take three steps at a time, but something told me to chill out—winning a race had started all my troubles in the first place. So, I’m not saying I lost on purpose, but I was fine with Hailey Joanne reaching the landing just a hair before me.

  We leaned against the iron rail of the balcony catching our breath when Hailey Joanne bit her lower lip and said, “I had another reason for posting your tryout on YouTube.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. I did it as a thank-you.”

  “Thank me? For what?”

  “For not ratting us out. If you had told Lipschultz that Brooklyn and I had hidden our phones in the wastebasket, I would have been in trouble, too, because I lied about not having my phone with me. Brooklyn just couldn’t appreciate that you weren’t a snitch and didn’t tell the whole truth. But I did, because Mother would have taken away my phone for a month if she ever found out I dared to break a rule in my great-grandparents’ school. So, when you got up there at the audition and sang your buns off, I posted it as a way of, I don’t know, showing I thought you were über crisp.”

  “Wow, I had no idea.” It was strange, but to my eyes, at that moment, Hailey Joanne advanced from being a paper cutout doll to a life-size mannequin.

  She gripped my hand and led me down a long corridor. “So, anyhow, when I told Mother I didn’t want Minelli’s to cater my party, Mother said, ‘No, no, no, it’s too late to hire a new caterer. You’ll just have to get over yourself, Hailey Joanne.’ Can you believe that? I hope she doesn’t think I’m going to invite Brooklyn to my party just because her father is catering. If she does come, she can just stay in the back with the help.” She started to giggle. “Actually, it would be fun if they put her in one of those waiter costumes and made her serve.”

  This was my chance to fulfill my mission—the perfect set up. If I could have spoken up right then, not only might I have been able to secure the catering job for Dada, but I’d also have saved the day for Hailey Joanne. But just as I was about to speak, she opened the double doors to her bedroom, and I almost swallowed my tongue, teeth, and lips.

  CHAPTER 13

  Faking Friends

  You know that scene in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy steps out of her old black-and-white house and everything around her is in color? That’s how I felt stepping into Hailey Joanne’s bedroom. I’d never seen a room like that, not even in the movies. It was filled with light. The pink-and-silver pattern on the wallpaper made the whole room glisten. We removed our shoes at the door, because the carpet was long, fluffy, and white, like an Angora cat. (That’s right, a white carpet in a kid’s room!) Her bed was circular, up on a platform, and surrounded by a cloud of pink sheer curtains. All of the furniture was mirrored, which made the ginormous room look even ginormouser. I knew ginormouser wasn’t a word, but a room like that deserves its own language.

  “Outstanding! I love it,” Hailey Joanne cheered, clapping her hands and spinning around herself. “I love to see the looks on girls’ faces when they first walk into my room. Pretty spectac, huh?”

  I nodded. “It sure is.”

  “Father had it duplicated from a real princess’s boudoir he saw in Dubai. Come on, my stylist is meeting us in my dressing room.”

  I followed her through frosted-glass double doors into a dressing room almost as large as the bedroom and really fancy. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined all the walls except for the glass showcase closets holding legions of dresses, pants, blouses, sweaters, shoes, handbags—enough clothing and accessories to fill two or three boutiques. There were pink velvet chairs, a pink carpet, and a pink crystal chandelier hanging from the domed ceiling. I felt like I was inside a jewelry box.

  I was feeling light-headed. Surrounded by so much luxury, I was about to hyperventilate when I noticed, standing alongside a clothing rack, a tall, X-ray-thin woman wearing an outfit that would have looked better on her granddaughter. This was Tessica, the stylist. She zipped across the room and air-kissed Hailey Joanne while leading her to a rack of garment bags. I was so completely ignored that I checked my reflection in the surrounding mirrors to make sure I was actually there.

  Tessica unzipped dress bags to display full-length gowns, shimmering pantsuits, and cocktail dresses. These were the kinds of clothes movie stars wore on red carpets. Hailey Joanne, finger on her chin, perused the collection very casually. If she wrinkled her nose and shook her head, Tessica pushed the dress away and moved on to the next. If Hailey Joanne moved her head from side to side and shrugged, Tessica pulled out that outfit and hung it on another rack that I assumed was for the clothes Hailey Joanne would eventually try on.

  Tessica displayed a high-collared, sleeveless, red minidress covered in bugle beads. “Vintage Halston, cupcake,” she said in a voice that sounded like it got stuck in a blender set to “chop.” “It doesn’t get any better than this!”

  Hailey Joanne gasped, hand over her mouth. “Mango would look fabulous in this!”

  The stylist frowned, making her wrinkles all the more prominent. “Mango? Who’s that?”

  When Hailey Joanne pointed to me. Tessica acted as if she hadn’t even known I was in the room. “Oh, you! Are you looking to buy a dress, too?”

  “Um. Not exactly.”

  “Of course you are,” Hailey Joanne said, taking the dress from Tessica and heading toward me. “You’re the star of our school p
lay; you have to dress the part.” Gripping my arm, she led me to what turned out to be a mirrored door to a dressing room and scooted me in. “Try it on. It’ll look fabulous with those long legs of yours.”

  She closed the door before I could protest, and there I was, surrounded by four floor-to-ceiling mirrors and about ten thousand reflections of myself. The dress was very heavy but so, so, so beautiful. It was lined with satin and was sewn so perfectly it took me a while before I found the zipper along the side. What could it hurt to try it on? Just because I tried it on didn’t mean I’d have to buy it.

  I hustled out of my jeans and T-shirt and slid into the dress. It was amazing. The lining felt like a cool breeze against my skin. I turned this way and that, admiring myself in the mirror. I sucked in my cheeks and struck poses the way actresses and models do on a red carpet. No wonder they all looked so confident and beautiful; wearing a dress like this, or even just trying it on, made you feel like a zillion bucks. I was losing myself in a fantasy of flashing lights, surrounded by photographers calling out my name. “Mango, over here!” “Hey, Mango, give us a smile, darling?” “Oh, yes, perfect!” The next day my picture would be all over the society and gossip blogs, and I’d be trending on all the fashion websites.

  My reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Tessica. “Mongo? Come on out, biscuit, if you’re dressed.”

  Mongo? Biscuit? Seriously? Was she trying to diss me? She probably couldn’t hear very well, what with her advanced age and all the rattling bangles she wore on her stick arms. I opened the door and stepped out. Tessica guided me to the center of the room, and then walked around me as if appraising a piece of furniture in a showroom. “Amazing. It’s as if it were designed and altered to fit you perfectly. Is it too heavy?”

  “Not really. I mean, it felt heavier when I was holding it, but now that it’s on—”

  “That’s the sign of a great designer. You must buy this dress!”

  Another door opened, and Hailey Joanne stepped out of her dressing room wearing a peach-colored, sequined dress that fit her like a second skin. She was very well developed for her age, or any age, with the kind of figure that made girls lime-green with envy. The way that dress showed off her shape let girls like me know that there was no competition when it came to who the reigning queen of the school was. It seemed as though we were mirroring each other the way both our mouths dropped open when we saw one another.

  “Outstanding!” Hailey Joanne exclaimed.

  “Me? You! You look like … like … some kind of mermaid princess.” We grabbed each other’s hands and shimmied in our glittering couture.

  Hailey Joanne said, “Mango, you just have to wear that dress to my party.”

  I let go of her hand and stepped back as all of the air whizzed out of the room. “I can’t. There is no way I can afford this.”

  Tessica wrinkled her brow to the point that she looked like the parchment the Declaration of Independence was written on. “Why not? Why did you come to a private showing if you’re concerned about money?”

  “Tessica!” Hailey Joanne scolded. “I invited her. She’s my best friend. Her family doesn’t … well, her father has a restaurant or something, but they’re not rich.”

  Tessica’s eyes narrowed. “Which restaurant does your father own? Have I heard of it? Have I been there?” She was examining me closely, and I felt like an ant caught under a magnifying glass in the blazing sun. I was afraid my armpits would start to sweat at any minute and ruin the satin lining of the dress.

  Still, I didn’t want to lie, so I decided to clear things up. “My father doesn’t own a restaurant. He is a chef. At least he was until he lost his job recently. Now he’s a caterer.”

  Hailey Joanne’s perfectly plucked eyebrows arched. “A caterer? Really? Is he booked? Would he be too busy to do my party?”

  I couldn’t believe she was asking me what I had come to ask her. I was beginning to hyperventilate again and felt a trickle of sweat under my armpit.

  Hailey Joanne moved nose to nose with me and said, “Listen, if you can get your father to cancel whatever else he is booked to do and cater my party, I will see to it that you get to wear this dress.”

  “What? Really?”

  She held up her right hand and said, “Pinkey swear!” Normally when someone says “pinky swear,” you twist your two pinkies together to seal the deal, but when I held my pinky up, Hailey Joanne looked at me as if I were odd. So I dropped my pinky and then realized she said it because her name was Pinkey.

  “Well, I guess I can call home and ask him.”

  “Right now. Do it right now!”

  Hailey Joanne started to drag me out of the room, but Tessica stopped her and made us change out of the dresses before we left her sight. Everything after that was sort of a blur, but one thing was clear: after a phone interview with Mrs. Pinkey (she remembered Dada from the great job he did catering her anniversary when he worked at Minelli’s), he got the job catering the birthday party. I had the contract in my backpack. I was a hero. And I would get to wear that amazing red, beaded, vintage Halston dress to the party. Maybe faking friends with Hailey Joanne wouldn’t turn out to be so bad after all.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Kissing Game

  For the next two weeks, I was a golden child who could do no wrong—a ray of sunshine to my folks. Mom was hyped that I had arranged for Dada to get this opportunity all on my own. She was sure it would lead him and the family to the next stage in our lives. Every time I walked into a room, Mom’s lips would peel back in a bright smile. She didn’t even give her usual stern lecture when I got a C on my Anne Frank book report. Instead, she said, “I understand that you’re very busy with learning lines, songs, and dances for the play, so we’ll overlook this one, okay?” I gladly agreed but was disappointed that I hadn’t done a better job, because I really felt for Anne Frank and all she went through.

  Rehearsal for the play was going … well, I guess I could say it was going okay. The songs were great and fun to sing. I was learning so much from Mr. Ramsey about singing from my diaphragm, breath control, warming up properly, not making bad habits that strain the vocal cords, and keeping my eyes open when I sang. I was becoming more and more confident as a performer, and for the first time, singing was more than something fun I could do. The more I learned about singing properly, the harder I worked to do it better.

  The not-so-great part was my acting. Playing a character, pretending to be someone other than myself, that was a real challenge. I was no actress. And although TJ was as nice as he could be, I was embarrassed when I had to say romantical things to him, and I still couldn’t bring myself to kiss him. Or let him kiss me.

  In Yo, Romeo! our kissing scene was set in a recording studio. I was in the booth recording, and Romeo sneaks in to watch. When everyone takes a break, my agent (aka Izzy) sneaks Romeo into the booth with me, and we sing “Duet Forever” to each other as we fall in love. At the end of the scene, we kiss. The first few times we just mimed kissing from a distance. But during the fifth week, Bob wanted us to do the scene for real and go all the way through with the kiss.

  Before I was called to run the scene, I went to the bathroom, swooshed water around in my mouth, and chewed a handful of breath mints. When it was time to rehearse, my breath was immaculate, so I thought I was ready. So did Izzy … and the rest of the cast. Everyone had gathered around to watch. My hands were shaking. Bob caught on and told Boss Chloe to clear the auditorium. Closed rehearsal.

  I calmed down a little bit. Bob walked me to the wings on the side of the stage and said, “You’re doing great, Mango, but you have to stop trying to separate yourself from Juliet. You are her, and she is you. Trust it and let yourself go.”

  I whispered, “But I’m scared.”

  “Great. It’s perfectly fine to be scared. Juliet is scared, too. Romeo is her first love, and this is the first time she’s ever kissed a boy. She is feeling just what you are feeling. Go with it and let yo
urself play the scene.”

  Bob was right. My character was feeling shy, scared, embarrassed, and nervous—just like me. I went back onstage. Mr. Ramsey, at the piano, played, and TJ and I sang. Trusting that my feelings were Juliet’s feelings opened me up. I sang the same notes as before, but my feelings were free, and so my voice took off like never before. I could see in TJ’s face that he could tell something in me was different, real, and true.

  The song ended, and we moved in for a kiss. His head tilted one way, and I tilted mine the other way. Just before our lips touched, I covered my mouth with my hand, and TJ wound up kissing my knuckles.

  Bob’s frustration with me finally got the better of him. He pulled on his cockatoo hair and growled as he stormed out of the auditorium. Mr. Ramsey, blinking furiously, said, “Uh … just hang tight, you two. I’ll be right back.” He hurried up the aisle after Bob.

  TJ and I were alone. I could hear my heart thump thumping in my chest. Snippets of conversation, laughter, and kids running lines seeped in from the hallway where the other cast members were waiting. The empty auditorium seats in their upright positions seemed to be frowning and judging me.

  I looked in TJ’s direction, mumbled “Sorry,” and then turned and walked upstage, facing away from the judgmental seats and away from TJ. The only one I couldn’t get away from was myself and how lame I was. Why had I ever agreed to do this?

  Ego—that’s what it was. Bob had stroked my ego, and I’d gone along with it even though I knew deep down inside that I didn’t have an ounce of what it took to play a character. I could smell the mildew of shame oozing from every pore.

  I heard TJ’s footsteps on the wooden floor behind me. His biker boots. They made such a clunky sound. He got close enough for me to hear him breathing. For about a minute he was silent, and then all of a sudden he blurted out, “A sloth takes a whole month to travel a single mile.”