Where I Belong (11 page)

“Hey, ladies,” Dennis says. “Looking good for underage girls.” Dennis often says creepy things like this, but he’s totally harmless.

“Thanks, Dennis,” I say. “You are looking good for being Bronson’s brother.”

“Hey, hey, Miss Corrinne,” Dennis says, and looks back at me from the front seat, “as I remember it, I caught you and him making out on our couch just last summer.”

“Last summer,” Waverly says. “That’s a lifetime when you are fifteen.”

I can always count on Waverly to say the genius thing and defend me. She’s been like that since we were little girls playing in our fenced-in nursery school sandlot.

“Okay, then,” Dennis says. “You girlies are going to have to get a professional driver for the way back. I am going to the Box tonight.”

No shocker there. Everyone goes to the Box, the local dive bar. Everyone, that is, with a really good fake ID that will scan or the privilege of actually being legal.

“Think you could sneak in two hot girls?” Waverly asks as she locks eyes with Dennis in the rearview mirror.

“Not a chance,” Dennis says, gunning the car once we hit the main road to Madaket. “I am in enough trouble there for a bar fight that my friend started.”

After a few more minutes of banter with Dennis, he pulls up to the seashelled driveway to their house.

“I’d tell you girls to be good,” he says, “but I know you won’t listen.”

We both laugh and jump out of the Wrangler. Walking toward the front of the house, I see that a bunch of our summer friends are already there and hanging out on the porch. On the side yard, croquet’s been set up, and a drink cart is overloaded with top shelf booze.

“Hello, lovely ladies,” Bronson says, approaching in madras with a denim button-down. He looks decent, and I can almost see why I made out with him last summer. “How about a life-is-good?” Bronson says and points to the drink cart. “As you may know, it’s the signature drink of the island.”

“Sure,” Waverly says, and grabs my hand. “After all, life is pretty damn good to us.”

Bang!

The sound of pots and pans clanking around snaps me out of better times, B.R., Before the Recession. Glancing
at the photograph of Waverly and me one last time I realize that times like those might never happen again. If I want to feel happy, my memories might be the only place to go. Searching out a mysterious smell—a cross between street chestnuts and the cotton candy at Yankee Stadium—I get up and go to my grandparents’ kitchen.

“There’s Texas’s newest driver,” Grandpa announces in his game show host voice.

“Your grandfather says you’re a natural,” Grandma says from the stove. “I guess you and your mom are different, because she cost us a fortune to get insured. Three accidents with a learner’s permit. Maybe she always was a city girl in her core.”

“What are you baking, Grandma?” I ask.

Tripp pipes up from the couch, “Cherry-chestnut cobbler.”

“Your grandmomma has great news, Corrinne. She just called up an old friend of your mom’s, Ginger,” Grandpa says.

I do not believe that Grandma, “news,” and a woman named Ginger mean anything good for me. But I indulge my grandfather.

“Really? What is it?” I ask.

“I got you a job,” Grandma says as she douses the crumble with brown sugar. “It isn’t healthy for you to just mope around the house after school. You need some fresh air.”

“I don’t remember saying I need a job,” I remark with my hand on my hip. “It’s not exactly like I have anywhere to shop.”

Only my friend Sarita worked. That’s because she had to buy a second cell phone. Her parents were monitoring her every call and even had a GPS detector put in her phone. If she never got her own cell phone, her parents were going to ruin her life.

“It’s a job with horses,” Grandpa interjects as he turns the TV volume down. “We know how much you miss your horse. You’ve got his picture plastered all over your room like he’s a movie star.”

“Sweetbread is a she,” I whisper. “Thanks for the concern, but I don’t want a job even with horses—unless it’s my horse and it’s in Connecticut.” Saying Sweetbread’s name loudly would cause a breakdown of epic proportions.

Grandma stops her sugar dousing. “Corrinne, I know your parents let you do pretty much whatever you want, but in this house you will do as we say.
We’re
in charge here.”

She takes a step closer to me and locks eyes with me. “So you will be helping out at Ginger’s stables, and you will start Monday. Otherwise, you’ll be grounded.”

“Grounded from what?” I challenge as I inch toward her. “You mean I won’t be able to see my totally awesome Broken Spoke friends and go to happy hour at Sonic?
Being grounded sounds just fine. This whole place is a prison; I might as well just stay in my cell.”

“You are being dramatic, Corrinne,” Grandpa says, and stands up from the couch. “Maybe this winter you’ll try theater, but this fall you will try working at Ginger’s. Your momma used to ride there.”

“I think cleaning stalls and shoveling manure might do you some good,” Grandma says, and turns her back to me. “You’ll build some muscles and maybe even some character while you are at it.”

“Shoveling manure? Don’t they have stable hands that do that?” I spit.

Grandma spins around. “That’s the job I got
you
. You are the newest hand. Hope you brought some clothes that you can get dirty in.”

Without another word, I hightail it to my room. I slam the door extra hard to make sure even my grandparents, with their declining hearing, can feel the vibrations of my anger. Shoveling manure? Sick. While I am not afraid of getting manure on my boots now and again, I—okay, my parents—pay people to shovel Sweetbread’s manure. I don’t shovel
other people’s
horses’ poop for a few dollars. This is not happening. Isn’t there, like, a hoof and foot disease I could catch?

I lie back on my bed. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t get back to B.R. even in my daydreams.

Chapter 7

This Is My First Rodeo

I
SPEND
S
UNDAY IN BED
. Grandpa brings me in trays of food and laughs at his own room-service jokes.

“Room service here,” Grandpa says. “Is this like the Plaza, Corrinne?” he asks.

No, I think. Grandma’s food’s way better. But I don’t say it. Even after a day, I am still fuming at Grandma about this job thing. First I am driving. Now I am working. Does she also have me in an arranged marriage that I don’t know about? Am I adopting a child from a foreign nation? She’s got my life on total fast-forward, and I don’t like it. I didn’t plan to work until after college except for some internship where I could somehow still manage a good summer tan.

After dinner, Grandpa returns to my room to collect my tray.

“You know that your momma used this same tray when she stayed home from school with a cold. She said she could only eat pancakes; that was the only thing that’d make her feel better. I think that might have been a white lie though, just so she could eat pancakes for dinner.”

Uncurling myself from the fetal position, I sit up. “I am not sick, Grandpa,” I say. “I am grounded.”

“There’re a lot of ways to be sick,” Grandpa says as he sits on the corner of my bed. “Homesick is real sickness, sweetie. It’s okay to be sad, but moping doesn’t do anything except make it worse. And you aren’t grounded if you go to your job tomorrow.”

“There’s no way I am working there,” I say.

What would I even wear if I were insane enough to do it? I mean, my dressage clothes would be totally ridiculous. It would be like going to a dive bar in a ball gown. You don’t shovel poop in beige jodhpurs, a blue jockey skullcap, and a hacking jacket. And I never got into that whole grunge trend, so I don’t have any boyfriend jeans or flannel shirts.

“How about we make a deal?” Grandpa says, reaching out his hand for a shake. “This house is small, and we need peace. You go tomorrow and see if it’s truly unbearable. And if you find it’s not and you keep at it, I’ll let you have Billie Jean the Second when I get a new truck. Hard to resist, huh?”

I think this offer over: If I am willing to shovel manure in extreme heat, I can become the lucky winner of a junky jalopy. Even in a recession this sounds like a bum deal.

“I’ll think about it, Grandpa,” I say because I am too exhausted to argue, but I don’t shake his hand.

“That’s all I ask, Corrinne,” Grandpa says as he gets up from the bed. “Grandma thinks idleness is the door to all the other vices. And I tend to agree. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be locked up in her room watching TV on a computer,” Grandpa says. Opening the door, Grandpa mutters to himself, “Never thought I’d live to see the day that there was TV on a computer.”

After he shuts the door, I put my earphones back on to continue watching
Gossip Girl.
It’s the closest I can get to my old life right now.

Just when I am so immersed in the world of Chuck, Serena, and Blair that I forget about Texas and my impending employment, Tripp flings open my door without knocking.

“I know that you are a mutant and don’t know social norms,” I say loudly without even taking my earphones off, “but on planet Earth, we knock, even here in Twilight Texas.”

Tripp leaves and shuts the door behind him, and I sigh.

A second later, I hear a loud knock.

I do a calming countdown from three to two to one.

The knocking persists.

“Come in,” I finally grunt.

Tripp then leaps onto my bed without an invitation. I decide to just let that one go.

Yanking out my earphones and pausing
Gossip Girl
midscene, I roll my eyes at Tripp. “What business do you have in my room?”

“Grandpa says you are homesick,” Tripp says. “And you know what? I am too. Well, just a little. I am really bored without chess club. Do you want to do something together? Grandpa and I are watching the Yankees later.”

“I am not homesick,” I lie. “It’s not home that I care about. Or Mom or Dad. I miss my life. That’s different. And you didn’t have a life, so you have nothing to miss besides chess, which is lame anyways.”

“Corrinne,” Tripp whines, “you never hang out with me. I thought Texas would be different, especially since it’s not like you have friends here.”

“Out,” I say, and shove Tripp off the bed. He lands with a thud, dusts himself off, and retreats.

Tripp’s right, I don’t have friends, but hanging out with my annoying little brother won’t make my life any less pathetic.

Monday at school reminds me why Monday is the most psychologically damaging day of the week. People should
just stay home to protect their mental well-being, and the government should enforce the rule.

Bubby totally harasses me in Spanish class.

“Manhattan,” he whispers, “you were gone in a New York minute from the party last Friday. Hope it wasn’t anything I said.”

I whisper back, “No, it’s who you are.”

Bubby hoots at this. Apparently he doesn’t even get how to take an insult.

After Spanish class, Kitsy grabs my hand and says, “Please forgive me about the party. Sorry you didn’t have fun. I feel terrible. Did some girl say something? Girls here are super jealous, especially over football players, and everyone knows that Bubby’s got it bad for you. Can I make it up to you? Let’s go shopping for Saturday’s dance together. Please? I want your opinion on my dress.”

Like always, Kitsy’s monologue has left me totally confused. Bubby, who verbally assaulted me, has a crush? A dance? Shopping in Broken Spoke?

“I don’t know, Kitsy, because I am not totally sure how much longer I’ll be here,” I reply, and Kitsy’s permanent smile disappears. “Could be just a few more days,” I elaborate, feeding my own lie.

Kitsy totally deserves an A for effort, but I am not in the business of giving out congeniality awards. So I walk
away without even thanking Kitsy for asking me to go shopping.

After school, I had prepared to continue my grounding and watch more
Gossip Girl
episodes. While Grandma and I wait for Grandpa to pick us up, I don’t say a word. Total silent treatment. Grandpa smiles really big when we get into the truck.

“Surprise, Corrinne. I got you something!” And he pulls out a big shopping bag with a shoe box inside.

“Open it,” he says. Grandma just rolls her eyes at him. And out of the box I pull a pair of totally faded, worn, caramel brown cowboy boots. They look like they’re a total gem from a vintage store in the East Village.

“They were your momma’s. She left them here when she went to the city,” Grandpa says. “I guess she thought she’d be back for them.”

And I have to admit that they’re wicked hot. Posh might even lend me Beckham in exchange for these.

“They’ll be great for your first day of work,” Grandma says, and reaches for another bag. “I did you the courtesy of packing some more—uh—appropriate clothing. They used to be your mom’s too.”

I guess my grandma didn’t think a yellow sundress would be appropriate for manure duty, but I hadn’t actually planned on shoveling manure.

Peering into the bag, I see there’s a totally chic pair
of ripped Levi’s, dark but faded, and a gray T-shirt with
BROKEN SPOKE HIGH SCHOOL
in navy letters.

“So let’s get Tripp and then we’ll drop you off. Before you know it, you’ll be able to drive yourself,” Grandpa says, and turns to wink.

I have two options: a) watching TV in a barely air-conditioned room or b) shoveling poop. I am for sure going to choose a) until I realize that b) might just make me enough money to get a ticket out of this town. At this point, I am willing to take the Greyhound bus if it means escape.

“Okay,” I say, “I’ll try it. But just today.”

And I swear, Grandma almost cracks a smile.

GINGER’S STABLES, TURNING GIRLS INTO RODEO QUEENS SINCE
1975, the sign reads.
TOURISTS WELCOME
.
TRAIL RIDES DAILY
. The facility is astonishingly dilapidated, complete with a chipped red barn and white fences mended with duct tape. They are nothing like the Martha Stewart–inspired stables where I ride back home. And tourists in Broken Spoke? That is laughable. The only tourists who would make it here would be very lost tourists. But the horses, mostly quarter horses and paints, look beautiful in the pasture. After noticing my prickly goose-bumped arms, the effect I get from being around horses, I desperately miss Sweetbread, which reminds me that I need to email my barn to make sure she’s getting her exercise.