Mallory was younger than me, but not the youngest. Rachel was the baby, the dark-haired reason for our move to the reservation. Mallory was blonde with ringlets and dimples. The truth was I’d never quite forgiven her for being born, but due to limited options I’d sometimes play with her.
Everyone loved Mal. They couldn’t get over how adorable she was. “Ooh, look at her—she’s an angel, just like a little Shirley Temple.”
Everyone said it. Even those who didn’t like whites thought she was a doll. Perhaps she was so pale that she seemed less pale, her golden curls and pink cheeks putting her in a fairytale category.
People played Shirley Temple songs and Mallory danced to them. They laughed and clapped. They thought this was cute. I thought it was stupid, though I found myself wanting to be asked to dance and sing, too. On New Year’s Eve, the adults dropped off one at a time, either leaving or passing out. Mal and I were in the kitchen, standing on chairs. The record player was perched high up on a shelf, and we took turns dragging the needle back to the same song. Over and over. We listened to “The Good Ship Lollipop.” With the adults asleep and Mallory still in first grade, I made the rules, and the first thing I decided was that yellow ringlets hardly mattered. Girls with flat brown hair could sing golden songs, too. There were bottles of vodka and schnapps on the table. I danced and twirled in the tiny kitchen. I sang Shirley Temple songs at the top of my lungs. I let peppermint schnapps trickle down the back of my throat and felt fire come up from my belly.