Where I Belong (9 page)

Marching to the keg, I pour myself another beer.

I am so angry, my filter has disappeared, so I decide to go for the final last word. “The reporter act is lame, by the way,” I say from the keg. “Go back to just playing football.”

“Actually,” Bubby says as he comes down from the truck, “I like reporting. I learned pretty early on that your dreams don’t usually work out. I could blow my knees and have nothing. So I am pretty conscious to use my brain as well. It’s something you should try more often yourself.”

I open my mouth to answer, but no words come out, so I walk as slowly and steadily as I can to Kitsy.

“Kitsy,” I ask quietly, “can we go?”

“Ohmigod,” Kitsy says, “I am a terrible friend. I haven’t even introduced you to anyone. There’re a bunch of people over there. Let’s go talk to them. I thought you were having fun with Bubby; he’s totally sweating you. Everyone agrees. Here, I’ll introduce you now. I am so sorry.”

“It’s just that I don’t feel well,” I start, and hold my stomach. This is true: I feel like I am dying. I hate my life, and now one of the only two people that I know in this godforsaken town hates me for no reason.

“Oh, of course, Corrinne,” she says, “Ugh, I am sorry.
I thought this would be fun. I’ll get Hands. He doesn’t drink ’cause he hates being hungover at eight a.m. practice. He can take us home.”

Eight a.m. Oh yes, I have driving lessons with Grandpa. There is yet another circle of hell; someone should tell Dante. I finish my beer and throw the cup on the ground.

“Thanks, Kitsy,” I say, and I mean it. She really is a nice girl. Maybe when I get out of this place, I’ll raise some money to get Kitsy out too. She’s too good for the field, the Spoke, all of this.

After a bumpy truck ride home, I tiptoe into my grandparents’ house, where I drunkenly eat three Mockingbird cupcakes, which does nothing good for my queasy stomach. Hiding under my covers in my room, I call Waverly three times: no answer. I don’t leave any messages. I am embarrassed to even tell my best friend how pathetic my life has become.

Chapter 6

Her Name Was Billie Jean, She Caused a Scene

M
Y I
P
HONE WAKES ME UP TO THE SONG
“D
OWNTOWN
.”
You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares, and go downtown.

Never was there a truer song, I think. If I could just somehow make it back to downtown. At the very least, I need to go back to bed. My head’s pounding. Nothing is worse than a hangover when you didn’t even have an ounce of fun or a remotely good story to make up for it. Wasted calories, too. I feel like a marching band is using my head for a bass drum and using baseball bats as drumsticks. And I can’t exactly ask Grandma and Grandpa for some Advil. It would be a bit Captain Obvious that I am Hangover Harriet, especially after Grandma told me not to drink.

“Corrinne,” Grandpa beckons through the door, “breakfast is on the table. Don’t forget, driving lesson afterward.”

What I need: three more hours of sleep and a long brunch with Waverly, followed by a bad-reality-TV marathon. What I don’t need: a driving lesson with Grandpa.

I figure my pajamas will work for driving clothes. While I am not usually into that whole the-homeless-look-is-the-new-chic mentality, I can’t bear to style an outfit with percussions playing in my head.

Diner smells invade my nostrils as soon as I step out of the door. Tripp’s already digging into the mountains of scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausage.

“Corrinne,” Tripp says, “Grandpa calls it the Saturday Sensational Special.
Way
better than any diner. Grandma, you need to open a restaurant.”

At Tripp’s comment, Grandma, for the first time since I arrived, beams. “Stop talking silly. I can just follow a recipe.”

Grandpa carefully folds up his newspaper. “Don’t be so modest. You could open a restaurant. We’ll call it Sandy’s Sensations. I can be the dishwasher.” Grandpa then chucks the paper in the recycle bin. “Corrinne, how was that party? Meet any nice young fellows?”

“Yeah, Corrinne, next time can I go with you?” Tripp asks with a piece of bacon still in his mouth.

“There’s not going to be a next time, Tripp. I had a
miserable time. If you don’t mind, Grandpa, I am too homesick for driving lessons.” Homesick, hungover, and hungry for New York. This is all true. At least I have my bacon and eggs.

I fall into my seat, somehow resisting an overwhelming urge to put my head onto my plate.

Grandma moves from the kitchen stove to the table and looks me in the eyes. “Corrinne, your grandfather cleared his day for this. You
will
be learning how to drive.” She unfastens her apron. “I am not sure how it is in the city, but here we have manners. When someone offers you a favor, you accept graciously.”

Staring at the shag, Brady Bunchesque carpet, I do not dare to look up at Grandma. “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

I am not accustomed to being yelled at, and I am not sure how my grandmother thinks she can get away with telling me what to do. Mental reminder: Dial my dad on this one. The one and only time in my life I was ever punished lasted for ten minutes because my father came home and said, “She’s just a child, J.J. We both hated our parents for disciplining us like that. Let’s be different.” And since then, my mom and dad have been what my economics teacher would call laissez-faire parents.

Grandpa picks up his keys off the table and jingles them.

“Sandy Jean, I think Corrinne’s just tired. Don’t
worry, Corrinne,” Grandpa says. “We’ll only do a half day to start. Your momma took out two mailboxes on her first day, so I am a veteran at this.”

Grandma looks like she’s about to start on me again. I am desperate to get out of this house and away from her.

So I smile and say, “I am nervous. There have been a lot of surprises in the past month. I just never imagined this day.”

Or this life, I add in my head. Hey, I am getting better at this filtering thing.

“I know, honey,” Grandpa says, and he pats my head. “Eat some food; we’ll leave in ten.”

I pile a ton of food onto my plate. Hopefully, grease can cure this hangover. I look for a coffeepot, hoping caffeine will soothe my headache. Normally I drink skinny mocha lattes with three Splendas, but I would take anything right now, even just plain black generic coffee.

“Is there coffee?” I ask.

Grandma stares at me as if I just asked her for meth to give a baby.

“Corrinne, caffeine is a drug. I can’t believe that your mother would permit you to drink coffee. Well, I
can
believe it, but I won’t tolerate it here,” my grandmother scolds.

I don’t tell her that coffee is the new water for successful New Yorkers. Although Grandma has
no
problem clogging my arteries, it appears I will not be getting a cup
of Joe to help me over this hangover. So I am going to learn to drive in a rusty, blue pickup truck named Billie Jean the Second while I am hungover, tired, and miserable. My life keeps finding ways to suck exponentially more each day.

Grandpa drives Billie Jean the Second to some deserted dirt road by a bunch of cattle farms. I am relieved to see the cattle are fenced in. The last thing I need to deal with is mad cows.

“Okay, Corrinne, let’s get out, switch spots, and go through the basics.”

And so for the first time in my life, I sit in the driver’s seat as Grandpa details the truck’s anatomy: the third pedal, the gearshift, the RPM dashboard, and the red line. Can’t someone invent iStick that will do this all for you? All the pedals at my feet feel like potential land mines. One wrong move and it will all be over….

Grandpa must’ve recognized the confusion on my face because he places his hand on my forearm and says, “You know, Corrinne, very few people, and fewer women, drive stick these days.”

And then Grandpa theatrically wags his finger at me. “Someday, you are going to impress the dickens out of a man with your beauty, your smarts, and your dry sense of humor. And then he’ll propose on the spot when you tell him that you drive a stick.”

I smile at Grandpa and laugh. “I think boys are into different stuff than they used to be.”

“Not the good ones,” Grandpa says. “You ready for this? Remember, you won’t go anywhere unless you work the clutch.”

“If my friends could only see me now…”

And just when I think I know what I am doing, my mind goes blank. Do I put my foot on the brake then the clutch? And which one is neutral on the gearshift? There are too many numbers on it; it’s like a math test. Since I am not one to ask for directions, I just fumble my foot on the clutch and I quickly shift into what I think is first gear.

Errrereg!
Billie Jean the Second lets out what must be a truck’s equivalent to a human’s scream for bloody murder, and then we lurch forward before we sputter to a stop. I lean my head on the wheel…and then of course, Billie Jean the Second honks back. Ugh! Screw my life, screw driving, and screw you, Billie Jean the Second.

“Grandpa, I don’t want to do this,” I whine with my hands over my face. “What just happened?”

Grandpa is actually laughing as if this were funny. “You just stalled, Corrinne; it happens to every beginner. You can’t start in third gear, sweetie; you have to start in neutral.”

Grandpa points to the correct position on the gearshift.
“Billie Jean won’t let you get ahead of yourself, that’s why you stalled. Now let’s try it again.”

“Try it again?” I balk. I am looking out the window, estimating how far the walk is back to the grandparents’ or even better, New York. I am pleased that Converses came back in style last summer, and I am even happier that I am wearing them now. Checking out the door handle, I wonder if Grandpa would try to chase me. I hope I don’t give him a heart attack.

“Corrinne,” Grandpa says, holding up his index finger. “Just one more try and then you can give up. Remember, start in neutral, then move her to first.” Grandpa pantomimes the action.

It looks hot and dusty outside, and I worry that a cow might charge me. With the way that people eat beef here, the cattle must be plotting for revenge.

I have done stupider things than try stick more than once. Like how Waverly and I steal a golf cart every summer in Nantucket and get caught every summer so we can flirt with the caddies. Given that record for repeat mistakes, I figure I should at least try again. And I do everything just like Grandpa said, clutch, neutral, first, gas.

Screech!
After Billie Jean the Second lurches to a more horrifying stop than the first time, she even starts to smoke from underneath. I am positive that the car’s on fire, and I look at Grandpa with panicked eyes. Maybe now he’ll
realize how teaching a city girl country tricks is a bad idea. I quickly unbuckle my seat belt. I am ready to stop, drop, and roll out of the car.

But Grandpa doesn’t move an inch. He just remains buckled in.

“This one is my fault, Corrinne,” he says calmly. “I forgot to tell you less is more. You only want to use a teensy bit of gas. It goes a looong way. Don’t worry. It’s just smoke,” Grandpa says, looking out the window, where the smoke is slowly disappearing.

“What about that saying, where there’s smoke, there’s fire?” I ask, looking out my window for flames.

“Oh, Billie Jean just likes blowing off some steam. No worries,” Grandpa says. “Okay, Corrinne, one more time. I promise I won’t ask you to do it again. Remember, clutch, neutral to first, and a tiny bit of gas.”

I roll my eyes at Grandpa. There’s a reason that even professional drivers like cabbies drive automatic. Shouldn’t we just quit now and be happy that the car never exploded?

But Grandpa just smiles at me and says, “Come on, Corrinne, a city girl like you is afraid of an old lady like Billie Jean?”

Talking about the car as if she were human is just getting creepy. I rebuckle my seat belt, fumble for the clutch, release it, slowly go neutral to first, and give the gas pedal a tiny tap. And I realize that I am moving. Holy shit,
I—well, Billie Jean—is moving.

“Grandpa, Grandpa,” I yelp with my white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. “What next? Help me.”

Grandpa laughs and laughs. “Okay, step on her and take her to second, remember just a tiny bit of gas,” he says.

“I am scared,” I say, and I find my knee shaking.

“You are going seven miles an hour.” Grandpa slaps his knee and shakes his head. No wonder taxis are always honking and swearing. This is fricking terrifying.

I look down at the joystick—gearshift, whatever it’s called—and move it to second. A huge dust bowl swirls up behind me.

“Great, girl, great. You’re a natural,” Grandpa says. “Now let’s get this baby to thirty miles an hour.”

And I did. Apparently, there is a bit of rhythm to this whole stick thing.

Grandpa yells above Billie Jean’s engine, “Roll down the windows. Feel what flying is like.”

Now it isn’t exactly like taking a heli to the Hamptons or skydiving in the Alps when I went to Europe, but it isn’t all horrible. With the windows down, my hair swirls in the wind as Billie Jean the Second soars her way down the country road.

“Okay,” Grandpa yells, “stop this girl on a dime. The clutch, downshift, and then the brake!” Somehow, I manage to follow his directions in the right sequence, and with
the jerk of a taxicab, Billie Jean the Second comes to a sudden halt and a brown dust cloud surrounds the car. Thank God for seat belts.

“That was cool, Grandpa,” I say, breathing for the first time since Billie Jean the Second took flight. “I can’t wait to tell my dad. I don’t think he knows how to drive stick.” Because he grew up in the city, my dad didn’t even get his license until he graduated college.

“Your daddy’s got many fine qualities, even if he doesn’t know how to drive stick. I feel bad for him, though. It’s one of the simple pleasures of life, driving stick on the open road.” Grandpa reaches for the ignition and turns it off. “You doing okay, sweetheart? I know that you miss your parents. Was the party really that bad?”