Where I Belong (3 page)

“When exactly will they be over?” I choke out between sobs.

My mother doesn’t answer me, so I retreat back to my room, defeated, and flop on my bed.

Closing my eyes, I imagine running away with Sweetbread, galloping out of the barn and just going. And I’ll
wear something really cute when I do it. We’ll keep riding until somehow we outrun this nightmare. Unfortunately, Connecticut and its surrounding areas don’t have good places for a teenager and a horse to hide out. The cops would be on us before we made it to the Merritt Parkway.

Curling up into a ball, I clutch my gold-plated framed picture of Sweetbread, the one with the inscription
A Girl’s Best Friend (After Diamonds, of Course),
and drift asleep.

The next morning, the town car waits for me in front of the building. I jump in, and we head uptown to pick up Waverly. She agreed to come with me to visit Sweetbread at the Blue Spruce Riding Club to say good-bye. I was surprised she agreed because she calls all horses filthy beasts and wishes they would become extinct like the dinosaurs.

Approaching Waverly’s town house, I spot her waiting on the stoop. She hops in, and we start the drive out to Connecticut.

“I can’t believe I am going to a barn. The only thing I hate more than animals are animal homes.” Waverly says. “You remember that I think the only good use for animals is fur, right?”

Of course I know this. Waverly despises animals so much she once even lobbied her building’s co-op board to ban all pets.
It’s home, not a zoo
was her opening line.

“You sound like Cruella de Vil,” I say.

Waverly’s eyes light up as she checks herself out in the
rearview mirror. “Really,” she says. “That’s awesome. I have always really admired her sense of style.”

I giggle a little, but then I remember this isn’t just Waverly and me on a road trip. This is a journey to say good-bye to my Sweetbread, who I have known since she was a tiny colt. She’s practically my own child. I should dial PETA on this: Would some activists please at least consider splashing my parents with blood?

Maybe Waverly notices my sadness because she says, “I am happy to come with you to the barn. I am practically Sweetbread’s godmother since you are my best friend. Although I am like a rich, beautiful, distant godmother since I can’t stand animals, but she’s still my goddaughter.”

“Thanks, Waverly,” I say, and squeeze her hand. “That means a lot to me even if it’s a totally backward compliment.”

Waverly squeezes back. “Just one thing, Corrinne,” she says, and then pauses. “You don’t mind if I don’t come into the stables with you, right? I am really not looking for manure to be my new scent.”

I roll my eyes and shake on it.

After we park at the stables, I get out and, true to her word, Waverly stays in the car with the driver.

As I am walking away, Waverly shouts out the tinted window:

“Give Sweetbread a kiss for me. Tell her that this separation won’t last long. Love is stronger than a recession. Or at least that’s what Dr. Phil said yesterday.”

Waverly has her moments. I am really going to miss her.

Entering the barn, I think about how many times I’ve done this exact routine. The smell of the hay, the horses, and even the manure heightens all my senses, and I start to breathe heavily. It’s not my personality to get animated about extracurricular hobbies. Here’s a secret: I am not actually interested in Global Affairs or Students for Ethical Fashion Merchandising, but I do them for college applications. I dread the meetings, and I would sleep through them if it were appropriate to wear sunglasses indoors. But I don’t ride because it’s a résumé booster; I ride because I love it. And Sweetbread, well, she’s been more loyal to me than any other friend, including Waverly, who missed my fourteenth birthday to attend a mobster-and-flapper-themed party with some douche bag.

Moving slowly toward Sweetbread’s stall, I take in the scene. I need to remember everything about it here: This is my happy place, where I’ll go in my head when I am in Texas. And hell, I’ll add that hot Edward guy from the vampire books. It’s my happy place, after all.

With shaky fingers, I unlatch the stall and walk in. Sweetbread neighs when she sees me. She knows; she
senses my sadness. Animals are smart like that.

I take a brush out of the grooming kit. Normally, I don’t groom Sweetbread since I am so busy with school. One of the stable hands does that for me. But now it seems right because I want to feel as close as possible to Sweetbread even if that means playing horse beautician.

As I brush Sweetbread’s honey hair against her chocolate coat, I think about all of our times riding together. Dressage, what I compete in, is basically horse ballet and is an art form that has been practiced since the Renaissance. After five years of us working together, Sweetbread and I get better with each competition. We just scored our first nine (even a score of six is considered great), and we passed into the third level. And now, I am leaving.

As I brush, I softly clue Sweetbread in.

“Everyone at the stable is going to take care of you. Don’t you worry, because I will figure out something. Think of it as, like, a minivacation for me, but a staycation for you since you aren’t going anywhere.”

I also tell her not to get jealous about Broken Spoke:
Travel + Leisure
editors will not be writing a feature on it anytime soon unless it’s the last place left after the apocalypse.

And as I tell her these things, I notice how I sound just like my parents when they tried to reassure me. There’s both insincerity and uncertainty in my voice. For the first
time, I realize that this is actually happening and that it might not end up okay.

I decide not to ride Sweetbread one last time. I am afraid that I’ll go into flight mode, start a slow-speed chase, and end up on the nightly news. And then everyone would know: Corrinne Corcoran is not going to Kent; she is moving to Texas without her horse. And she now faces criminal charges.

I wrap my arms around Sweetbread.

“Sweetbread,” I whisper, “I promise you that I’ll be back soon. And I won’t so much as look at another horse in Texas. You are the only one for me.”

And she is. Even if there were miraculously a stable that did dressage in Broken Spoke, which I highly doubt, I’d never try it with another horse. Training Sweetbread to respond to my subtle taps and finding our own special rhythm has taken us years. And I am lucky; many people never find the right horse to compete with. There’s no horseharmony.com for dressage that matches on twenty-nine dimensions of compatibility.

I rest my head on Sweetbread’s chest and feel her breathing. It almost calms me down until I realize that I have to let go. After giving Sweetbread a final kiss between her eyes, I walk out and I don’t look back.

When I slide back into the town car, Waverly looks at me with big eyes.

“You know that fraught face isn’t your best. You kind of look like some D-list celebrity after one of her bigger benders,” she says, and shakes her head.

Grabbing an empty water bottle, I playfully tap Waverly on the head.

“Please,” I joke. “Even in the middle of a national disaster like this recession, I never look bad. My looks are unflappable. Really, I should be a war correspondent. In fact, I might consider that.”

“Not a good idea,” Waverly says, shaking her head emphatically. “You’d be better for E! covering celebrity news, not real news. You wouldn’t want to accidentally start a war or something.”

No, I wouldn’t, I think. Battling the recession is exhausting enough.

And then Waverly directs the driver to Serendipity 3, the best ice-cream place in all of New York. They even have frozen hot chocolate, which is somehow made possible through cooking magic.

“It’s not going to change things. But if you can’t eat ice cream now, when can you? There are times to diet,” Waverly says, and holds her palms up in the air, “and then there are times for ice cream.”

With that, I pretty much forgive Waverly for missing my fourteenth birthday.

Chapter 3

Corrinne, You Are Not in the Village Anymore

W
E’RE AT
JFK
AIRPORT SECURITY
. The line’s long and I
so
don’t want to take off my wedges and go barefoot. This is no beach. I could pick up SARS or a fungus. They should at least have those paper slippers they give out at nail places.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go through security with you, Tripp?” Mom asks. “I can get a pass.”

“No, Mom,” Tripp says. “It’s part of the adventure.”

“You’re such a good sport, kid,” Mom says, and I try to remember the last time that my mother complimented me. I think it was when I was eleven and I won my first riding competition. She supposedly used to ride, and maybe she thought riding would bond us. It never did though, and now she rarely even comes to my competitions.

“Mom, maybe you should come with us through security. Isn’t it bad enough that we have to go to Broken Spoke by ourselves? Now you’re leaving us in the airport with total randoms?” I say.

I look around and wonder if anyone here wants a ticket to nowhere, aka Broken Spoke, because I’d gladly trade mine to go anyplace else. And I can’t believe my mother’s leaving
me
to watch Tripp. Aren’t there professionals called “nannies” that are responsible for caring for children?

My mom puts her finger to her mouth like a librarian: “Hush, Corrinne. You know that I want to go with you two, but we, and our entire country, are in the middle of an economic crisis. Google
recession
and learn something. I have to deal with the interior designers, the architects, and the contractors who all want money for the work they’ve put into the new Nantucket house, which we now can’t afford. And I need to sell the New York apartment. I don’t need to remind you again how difficult the apartment market is right now—half our building is for sale.”

Yeah, yeah, she’s probably right. For a few months now, my apartment building has been going budget on the flowers in the lobby—they are practically carnations. The building even cut the number of cable channels in the gym. No VH1, really? How is anyone supposed to run to CSPAN?

“All right, Mom. Bye-bye.” I blow her a kiss, but she
moves toward me and puts her hand on my shoulder.

My mother forcibly hugs me and says, “This isn’t easy for me, either. I am scared too, honey.”

Her eight-carat ring blinds me a bit. I shrug her off and go for one last blow.

“How about selling the ice, Mom? Maybe then I could go to Kent. But I guess you and Dad don’t really value my education.”

My mom just looks at me with her Indian Ocean blue eyes and steps back.

“This ring represents a sacrament of marriage, Corrinne. And twenty years of marriage. Your father saved up for two years to buy it. What haven’t your father and I given you?”

“Kent,” I answer without missing a beat. “The life I am supposed to be living. Do you know that Waverly told me that kids were calling us nouveau poor? This isn’t just a cocktail anecdote to laugh about later on. I am not doing a year in Paris, Mom, or even at rehab. Those are things I could spin. I am doing a year in Broken Spoke and moving away from everyone I have ever known. It’s going to take forever to rebuild my reputation.”

“What’s an anecdote?” Tripp wants to know.

“Um,” my mother starts, “an anecdote is sort of like a quick story about one inconsequential minute of your life. And Corrinne, you’re sixteen. I barely remember who I
was at sixteen. This
will
eventually be just an anecdote.”

Easy for my mother to say. She escaped a small town for the city and didn’t look back. I am being forcibly removed from the city, so all I can do is look back.

My mother kisses Tripp again and then turns like a ballerina in her heels to face me.

“Take care of Tripp, Corrinne. And please try to use your filter. I know it’s hard for you, but remember there are things that you say that you should keep to yourself. So think before you speak, especially to your grandparents,” she says. “And phone the second you get there,” she calls over her shoulder.

Tripp and I watch my mom get smaller and smaller as she walks away. Speechless that this is actually happening, I can’t get any last words out of my mouth. When I finally can, she’s gone and I quietly say, “Filter this,” and hold up my middle finger.

Tripp shakes his head at me. “You’re immature,” he says, and pretends he doesn’t know me as we move through security.

When I get off the plane, my back is aching from my first trip sitting in coach. I think there must be unicycles that are more comfortable than those tiny polyester seats. I am so looking forward to getting fresh air. But when we step outside from the Dallas baggage claim, I feel hotter than I
ever have in my life. Despite the fact it’s after eight p.m., I get automatic pit stains. So much for wearing white. Maybe I’ll sweat out some lbs here. That’s one good thing about Texas, and I’m sure it’ll be the only thing. Hey, if I go on a hunger strike and pass out, maybe my parents will finally pay attention to the gravity of my desperation.

Grandma and Grandpa sit in an idling old navy truck outside arrival door number one. Grandma, dressed in a denim blouse, waves ferociously. Grandpa tips his cowboy hat. I am happy a) that I recognize them since we haven’t actually met that many times and b) that no one I know lives in Dallas to see that I am related to Billy Bo and Sandy Jean Houston (pronounced like the city, not the street). Can grandparents be adopted?

Grandpa jumps out to help with our bags.

“You’re a light packer, I see,” Grandpa jokes as he tosses my luggage tagged
OVERWEIGHT
with surprising ease into the back of the rusted truck.

I cross my fingers, hoping that it won’t rain.

As if Grandma could read my thoughts, she calls out, “Don’t worry, honey, it’s the dry season. It’ll be safe back there.”

“Grandma, you should have seen what Corrinne wanted to bring. She and Mom nearly had World War Three over it,” reports Tripp.