Where I Belong (23 page)

“Go down that path,” Grandpa says. “I’ll be back in an hour, and we’ll head to the airport. And by the way, it’s
very deep and completely safe. People having been doing it for more than fifty years.”

“What is deep and safe, Grandpa?” I say. “This is just weird.”

“Not to mention creepy,” Waverly adds, and looks suspiciously at the path ahead of us.

“Fine,” Grandpa says, and reaches to take the picnic basket away. “Give me back all Grandma’s muffins and doughnuts. We’ll just head to the airport now.”

“No,” I say, hearing my emotional hunger growl. “We’ll go.”

Grandpa hops in the truck and drives away. Waverly and I slowly start down the road.

“This reminds me of that time we tried to run away from summer camp after the counselors confiscated our gossip magazines because they weren’t camp-appropriate,” Waverly says. “We only got to the gas station before the director caught us. Remember having dish duty for a week after because of it?”

“What were we supposed to do?” I say. “What if major celebrities broke up when we were away and we missed it?”

“Not to mention the mosquitoes; they were out of a sci-fi film. And the food was inedible. Thank God we hid candy in that old stuffed bear,” Waverly said.

“We were pretty genius for eleven-year-olds,” I interject.

“We totally were,” Waverly says. “Nothing was going to keep us from chocolate. We weren’t as weird about eating back then.”

Waverly and I had been quite the troublemakers as kids. I had forgotten how much fun we used to have.

After a few minutes, we reach the end of the dirt road. We keep walking straight through a grass field. Then the grass stops. And far below us is a sea blue pond.

“Wow,” I say as I back away from the edge. “There is water in Texas.”

“How high do you think we are? Like diving board high or tenth-story high?” Waverly asks.

“It’s totally Empire State Building high. No way I am jumping from that,” I say.

“It’s actually pretty, in a nature-hugging way,” Waverly says, and steps closer.

“At least there’s one thing you like about Texas,” I say, bringing the picnic basket over to an old bench made out of a fallen tree. “Well, this and Rider.”

“Corrinne,” Waverly says. “First of all, nothing really happened with Rider. All he did was talk about music contacts. Second, he seemed to me like someone who uses people like us.”

“People like us?” I say, and shake my head. Was my mom right? Was I the one who changed? Did I used to be like Waverly?

I take out three Ziploc baggies of muffins from the basket.

“This is the thing, Waverly. Maybe I’ve changed, and I get that. But I hate how you judge everything here; you even said the coffee tasted second-rate.”

“Me?” Waverly says, and pulls off a muffin wrapper. “Judge everything? You are the one who keeps telling me how much you hate it. Why do I have to be the small-town cheerleader? You have Kitsy for that.” Waverly shakes an imaginary pom-pom, and I catch myself before I laugh. “Let’s face it, this isn’t what you want,” she accuses.

“Want?” I say. “No. But this is my life now and I want you to see it. I don’t want our friendship to exist solely in the past. My life’s never going to be like how it was, Waverly.”

“I just don’t know what we have in common now,” Waverly says.

“Me neither,” I whisper, not knowing what to say next. Maybe Waverly’s and my relationship was defined by our zip code and our lifestyle. Maybe we never did have anything in common beside that. I pop an entire muffin top into my mouth.

“Why did your grandpa drop us off here?” Waverly asks. “He didn’t really expect someone like you, a Scaredy-cat Susie, to jump off a cliff, did he?”

I pour each of us a glass of juice in an attempt to
dislodge the poppy-seed muffin top from my throat.

I swallow. “He’s old,” I say. “He probably thought the fresh air would mend our friendship. Grandpa is from that whole we-walked-ten-miles-to-school generation. He believes that the great outdoors and a little exercise can cure anything.”

We laugh.

“Maybe he’s right,” Waverly says. “There’s not much great outdoors in New York and everyone there is totally nuts. I bet that’s why all the rehab facilities are always in the country.”

Pointing to the edge, Waverly asks, “Do you want to jump first or second? You aren’t too chicken to be first, are you?”

I forgot how competitive Waverly is. But then I remember it was Waverly who challenged (forced) me to do the high dive, to ride a roller coaster, to take a helicopter. I used to be way phobic about heights. Without Waverly, I don’t think I would’ve ever seen above street level.

“Oh, please, Waverly,” I say. “I am a recessionista. That’s pretty damn tough. A cliff is nothing compared to this fall.”

“That’s it.” Waverly snaps her finger. “I am used to being the brave one. And here you are enrolled in public school, riding on circus animals, and hanging out with cowboys and wannabe rock stars. Somehow you became
the brave one. I guess that’s why this is hard.” Waverly pauses and then raises her eyebrows. “C’mon, recessionista, I’ll race you to it.” We both get up and run to the edge. Waverly makes it first. Of course. She’s never let me win.

“Okay, boarding school girl,” I say, refusing to look down. “Let’s see it.”

“Two things first, Corrinne. One, if I die, I love you—even the Broken Spoke version negative three-point-oh Corrinne. Two, take my picture. I’ve got to Facebook this.”

Grabbing Waverly’s iPhone, I get ready for her picture. Waverly steps to the edge and then stops. She looks back and grabs my hand.

I put the phone down.

“We’re jumping together,” she says, and drags me over. “You may be a recessionista, but you are still afraid of heights. And you still need me, even if only for this.”

I want to let go of Waverly’s hand, but I hear Grandpa’s voice repeating “deep and safe.” And isn’t there a saying that if all your friends jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, you should too? Before I remember the actual answer is “No, you shouldn’t,” Waverly and I are flying through the air, still clutching hands and plunging under the cool water. When we push through to the surface, we squeal collectively.

“Awesome,” Waverly says as she treads water. “Maybe your country grandpa has some street smarts after all. One
more time, Corrinne?”

I look back up to the edge, “Only if you hold my hand again,” I tease.

“I’m only holding it again if you promise to control your palm sweating—that was gross,” Waverly says.

After our next big leap, I look at my watch and realize that we were supposed to meet my grandfather ten minutes ago.

“We have to go, Waverly,” I say. We dash back to our clothes and run back down the road.

As we run, Waverly grabs my arm and says, “Boarding school kids are so uptight. I bet half the girls there wouldn’t have jumped because they are worried about their hair. Thanks for doing it.”

“Waverly,” I say, trying not to pant. “I really appreciate you coming, making me jump off the cliff, and being you, even though you are sometimes obnoxious. And thanks for letting me change and still be my friend.”

And we slow our pace to a power walk.

“I know this hasn’t been easy for you,” I continue after catching my breath. “If you reinvented to Goth or something, it’d take me a while to get used to it too. But think twice before you do that: I am not sure how you’d look with a chin piercing.”

“I am not going to completely rule out Goth,” Waverly says, thinking it over. “Wearing all black is so slenderizing
and a lot easier than going on a diet.”

At the end of the road, Grandpa’s waiting in Billie Jean the Second.

“How was it, girls?” he asks with a coy grin.

“Memorable,” I say. And I mean it. I guess my mom and her late-night lesson was right. Sometimes disappointment and surrender are two different beasts. That’s another saying Grandma needs to embroider.

“Refreshing,” Waverly adds as she rings out her hair. “Mr. Houston, will you take our picture in front of Billie Jean the Second?” Waverly says. “I want to show my roommate back at school a picture of Texan Corrinne and me. I only have pictures of New York Corrinne.”

“Sure,” Grandpa says. “I am proud of you girls. Not everyone would jump into a pond infested with swimming nutria; that takes a real friendship. Especially since it would definitely take both of you to fight the nutria off.”

Grandpa holds up the camera, and we strike a pose. Like all of our pictures since we were little girls, Waverly curls her arm underneath mine before she sticks out her chest and butt and poses for the camera.

“What’s nutria?” Waverly asks, just before Grandpa takes the picture.

“Oh, just swimming rats,” Grandpa says. “This is Texas, girls. We are not known for clean, fresh, or rat-free waters. Our water is like your subways.”

And before we can reply or scream, Grandpa presses down on the button. “Say cheese,” Grandpa says with a chuckle.

Click. In this picture, our mouths hang open wide. Swimming rats? How’s that for an anecdote?

Waverly and I create a scene at the airport. I may be a recessionista now, but I’ll forever be a drama queen.

“Don’t worry, Waverly,” I yell through the throngs of travelers as she moves toward the terminal. “We’ll never let a recession or a rodeo come between us. Love is stronger than that.”

“And I’ll get a friend who can tolerate furry creatures to check on Sweetbread,” she hollers back. “I’m titling my Facebook album ‘Ain’t Nothing Broken About It.’”

I decide to take that as a compliment. Back in Billie Jean, I put my head against the window and sleep for a while.

When I wake up, Grandpa is humming to the radio and admiring the view. Now that I’ve done the drive a couple of times during the daylight, I must agree there’s a little bit of truth to the saying that Texas is God’s country. While I wouldn’t go as far as agreeing with Hands’s bumper sticker, which says “American by birth, Texan by the grace of God,” there’s something to be said about farmlands.

“You awake, Corrinne?” Grandpa says. “That cliff jumping must have knocked you dead tired.”

“Not as tired as Waverly made me,” I say, and smile. “But she’s always been tiring. That’s part of her charm.”

“I’m proud of you, grandbaby,” Grandpa says, and squeezes the back of my neck. “You are growing into one fine lady.”

“C’mon, Grandpa,” I say. “Don’t get all sappy on me. I might not be a city girl anymore, but I am no softie.”

We both laugh.

“How about I finish the drive home?” I say.

“Home?” Grandpa repeats as he pulls to the shoulder.

“Yes,” I say. “I heard on a TV show that whatever strange place you find yourself, make that your home.”

Grandpa gets out his door and comes around to my side.

“You calling the Broken Spoke strange?” he probes.

“Oh, it’s definitely strange,” I say as I walk around the truck to the driver’s side. “But it’s still home. Or one of my homes. And what was our deal again? When exactly does Billie Jean the Second become mine?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Grandpa says with a side wink. “I’ve already been checking out her successors. How about I go with red this time? A nice fire engine red truck for my three-quarter-life crisis. Not sure if Grandma will like that, though.”

And it turns out, I hit my first traffic jam around Dallas on the way home due to a Cowboys game. Grandpa keeps telling me to be calm, and I tell him that I have had plenty of practice staying calm after this last fall.

By the time we get home, everybody is in his or her rooms, getting ready for bed. I crawl into bed in the dark and hear a crunchy noise underneath me.

My mom sits up in bed and turns on the light.

The crunch noise is revealed to be a piece of loose-leaf paper with a note written in Tripp’s perfect cursive. I didn’t think they even taught that anymore, but somehow Tripp’s handwriting looks as good as a schoolteacher’s.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, and hold up the paper. “What’s this? Does Tripp still believe in the tooth fairy?”

Tripp is such a good kid that he even writes the tooth fairy thank-you notes.

“You’ve really got to tell him she’s not real. He’s got enough going against him with the chess obsession,” I say, looking her dead in the eye.

My mom waves a finger and takes the note.

“I think he still does actually believe,” she says, reading the paper. “Good thing I have one child who’s not a total cynic. But that’s not what this letter’s about. Tripp’s teacher gave it to me at the rodeo.”

“Did he get his first bad grade?” I say, and my voice perks up. Maybe Texas is turning him into a human after all.

“No.” She laughs. “We’re still waiting on that. It’s about you, actually. Why don’t you take it someplace to read alone?” my mom says, and she lies back down.

“Like where?” I ask. “The bathroom?”

“Sure,” my mother mutters, already half asleep.

Sitting on the toilet—with the seat down, of course—I start to read.

Across the top, Tripp titled the paper “My Hero.”

My hero is my sister, Corrinne. Anyone who sees her knows that she is pretty, and she’s even funny when she isn’t being too mean. But that’s not why she’s my hero.

When we moved from New York to Texas, I was worried. Corrinne and me have never been very close, and she’s always too busy for me. I didn’t know Grandma and Grandpa well, so I thought I would be alone in a place I never visited. And at first, that’s how I felt. I made some friends, but I missed my parents and New York.

But then little by little, Corrinne started to be nicer. She let me work with her, and she even sat with me and my friends at a football game. And a couple of times, I was pretty sure that she was even listening to what I had to say. Even though she’s never let me drive with her or taken me to Sonic, she’s still my hero because she finally became the sister I always wanted to have….

Me, a hero? I most certainly don’t have any super-powers, like blowing fire or running at super speeds, and
I don’t think that I have ever been purposefully nice to Tripp. I only sat with him at the game because it was better than sitting with my grandparents. I am starting to get a stomachache, and I am fairly certain it’s not just from the MSG last night. Tripp has no good reason to think I am his hero because I am not even a good sister.