Where I Belong Read online

  “Well,” I say, watching Rider effortlessly finish my stall. “Maybe it’s time for me to branch out.” And maybe, just maybe, I can swing this recession and year in Texas into the story of how I met my rocker boy and became the next Nicole Richie. Maybe I could even get my own record deal out of this. And I can so already imagine us on the cover of Us Weekly.

  I rinse three times with Kiehl’s body wash until I am convinced I no longer smell of manure. After getting dressed, I sit down at the dinner table, starving. Shoveling manure is a better workout than the Bar Method, Pilates, and running in Central Park combined. I might just write the Why Stable Hands Don’t Get Fat diet book. It’s a good thing, because dinner looks especially calorie-packed tonight.

  “You’ve got that industrious glow to you,” Grandpa says. “You might be a worker yet.”

  I didn’t tell Grandpa that my flush is more of an “I just met a total hottie” glow than a “I love shoveling manure for minimum wage” glow.

  “I would agree,” Grandma says as she brings dinner—more dead cow—to the table. “Did Ginger ask you if you want to take lessons?”

  “She did,” I respond, “but I don’t think that rodeo is my style, and I’m faithful to my partner, Sweetbread. I saw Mom’s pictures, though. Where’d she get all those bedazzled tops? So ridiculous.” Ginger’s Hall of Fame had big, cheesy color glamour shots of all the past rodeo queens. Mom wore turquoise shirts with magenta rhinestones. Yikes.

  “Actually, Corrinne, I made those for your mom. That’s the traditional style for rodeo queens,” Grandma replies as she sits down and stabs into the roast beef.

  Oops, I’m right back on Grandma’s bad side. So what’s new? Oh well, I have to focus on how to get Rider. He totally ignored me for the last two hours that we worked, and didn’t even check me out when I bent down in front of him when I was shoveling. I mean, really? I saw how my Levi’s fit. But I am determined. If I can’t get New York and Kent and Smith, I will get Rider. It’s justice. Those who are wronged will find justice. That’s, like, in our constitution, right?

  “Big news, Corrinne,” Tripp says with his mouth full. “Mom said the person who was thinking about buying the place is definitely going to make an offer. So if it all works out right, Mom will be coming to Broken Spoke soon. And then I told her about you driving and working. She was in total shock. I could actually hear her gasp over the phone.”

  Oh yes, my mother, my middle-aged roommate. Sweet. I definitely needed to get a boyfriend and get out of this tiny cottage because it’s not big enough for Mom, Grandma, and me.

  After dinner, I spend alone time in my room and do the little homework that teachers assign. The best part of Broken Spoke High: Teachers give normal amounts of homework. Unlike my teachers back home, they understand that kids have lives. Of course, I have no life here, but I appreciate the courtesy.

  Logging on to Facebook, I search for Kitsy Kidd. Her picture—in her Mockingbirdette cheerleading outfit—pops up. I think for a second and click ADD AS A FRIEND. Not much later, I get a confirmation notice. I officially have one friend in Texas. After searching for Rider on Facebook, his picture pops up—all dark, blurry, and emo (how hot!), but I don’t friend him. I can’t be too Stalker Stacy.

  Rummaging through my closet, I try to find something that I could wear to the dance. Isn’t the whole point of dances to buy something new? That’s what it was like with events in New York. If Grandma actually liked me, I could get her to alter one of my dresses into at least looking somewhat different. But on second thought, she’d probably bedazzle it. Never mind.

  Maybe I will go with Kitsy to the mall. I have watched the show Dress for Less enough times, and sometimes they find something inexpensive that doesn’t look like it came from a mall in Kansas—or Texas. Rarely, but it has happened. With my style and accessories, there might be a dress out there decent enough to wear while watching Friday Night After the Lights. Plus, I saw on TV that shopping makes us happy because it releases endorphins. It’s also ingrained in our hunter-gatherer pasts. We need to gather to feel happy. Let me gather, let me be happy, and let Rider pull me onto the stage and ask me to star in his first music video.

  Chapter 8

  Is This a Mall?

  PEOPLE SAY IF YOU PRACTICE SOMETHING VERY OFTEN, you develop muscle memory. I have practiced shopping in NYC a lot, so I am strong at it. And I know how I do it best: alone and with plastic. So thinking about shopping in tandem with Kitsy gives me major anxiety. Will I even know what to do? It also makes me remember the last time I shopped with someone and that disaster.

  “You do not need this dress, Corrinne,” my mom says. “Do you really get how much money a thousand dollars is in the real world? That’s how much a wedding dress should cost, not something for a high school charity function.”

  After I unzip the zebra-print full-length dress, I step out of it, pick it up from the floor and put it neatly back on the hanger. I don’t want it to get wrinkled, and I won’t have time to get it dry-cleaned before the event.

  “Mom,” I say, “this is exactly why I like to shop alone so that I learn to make big decisions on my own. How else can I grow up? You won’t always be here, you know.”

  My mom starts to laugh, and then she realizes that I am not joining in. Pursing her lips, she takes the hanger with the dress off the wall.

  “Corrinne,” she says, “you need help. Your version of reality is seriously skewed.”

  Placing my hand on the hanger, I tug on the dress to get my mother to release it. My mom just holds on and stares back.

  “Mom,” I say in my I-sound-calm-but I-am-internally-freaking-out voice, “listen to me. This is not just a party, it is a fund-raiser for the Children’s Zoo at Central Park and we’re supposed to dress accordingly. Waverly claimed cheetah print because of her complexion, which I do admit is too ruddy for zebra. So I got screwed and got zebra, which is apparently going extinct in the fashion world. This is the only not-metallic-or-pleather zebra-print dress in Manhattan. Unless you want to go to the Bronx Zoo and get me some zebra fur, you will unhand this dress.”

  My mom shakes her head. “When I was your age, I used to fight with my mother about getting a new coat once every two years. This is ridiculous. You are fifteen and going to some charity function when you should be watching TV and ordering pizza with your friends. Fifteen is too young for galas. Really. I am so sick of Manhattan,” she says.

  I pull the dress from my mother’s fingers, and she finally relaxes her white-knuckled grip. She sits back on the blue plush dressing room chair and slowly hits her head against the wall.

  Hopefully, knocking her cranium will get her to think straight.

  “Mom, your shoes cost a thousand dollars. I see the red bottoms; they are Louboutins. This dress means a lot to me. And Grandma was right, why would you even need a coat in Texas? I actually have a purpose for buying this. Don’t hate on Manhattan just because you are antisocial and get anxious over events.”

  After stepping out of the Saks dressing room with the dress, I go to the register and charge it. My mother and I ride silently in the cab home.

  And the day of the gala when all the parents come over for cocktails beforehand, my mom snaps my picture and smiles all the same when everyone compliments her daughter’s good taste. Typical.

  Thinking about how much I hated shopping with someone—even back when I had plastic power—makes me super nervous about how dress-hunting with Kitsy is going to end up. I even break into a cold sweat. Or a hot sweat, rather, since it’s Texas, and it’s never cold here.

  Before Spanish class starts, Kitsy skips into the room and starts one of her signature monologues.

  “I am so glad you Facebooked me. Now I can totally tag you when we take pictures. Do you want to come to the mall with me tomorrow after practice?”

  Tagged in pictures? I am not sure I want to go that public with my year in Texas. And Facebook is permanent public record. I know kids who have gotten expelled for pi
ctures they posted. Photographs of me in Texas will not be good PR…except if Rider’s in them. Waverly would flip out; Rider’s so much hotter than Smith!

  “Hey, Kitsy,” I say, “you know Rider?”

  Kitsy throws her bag on her front-row chair and comes to sit by me in an empty desk in the back.

  “Rider Jones,” she says. “Of course. He’s going to be totally famous. He’s in a band, but he’s kind of stuck-up and he won’t go out with any girls from Broken Spoke. So when he makes it big, they won’t be able to go on the Today show and flash old pictures and say, ‘Here’s me and Rider at prom.’ It sucks because that would probably be my only chance to get on TV,” Kitsy says, and frowns. “Not that I would ever dump Hands, though. We’ve gone out since, like, the sixth grade.”

  Sixth-grade sweethearts. Wow. New Yorkers only commit to that type of monogamy with the Yankees or the Giants.

  “I got a job,” I say, which sounds strange. “And I work with him at Ginger’s stables. I am totally—what do you call it?—sweet on him.”

  I use Kitsy’s lingo because I want her to understand that I am serious about me and Rider and our fate. After all, I am a big believer in going straight after what, or whom, you want.

  “You work at Ginger’s stables?” Kitsy says as she stands up to walk back to her desk. “I totally wanted to be a Rodeo Queen because of the scholarship money, but the lessons are hella expensive. Rider would probably make an exception to his no-dating rule for you since you’re a beautiful city girl and not a hick like us.”

  I smile at Kitsy; she’s shockingly sweet. None of my friends back home ever compliment me. They’ll say “Nice dress” or “Nice shoes” or “Nice hair” but never “You’re beautiful.”

  “You know, Kitsy, I’d love to go to the mall,” I say to her before she makes her way back up to the front. “And how does this dance thing work? Do I need a date?”

  “Ohmigod,” Kitsy says, and I swear she shakes an invisible pom-pom. “I am so psyched that you want to come. After the field ordeal and our last conversation, I was worried that you were leaving Broken Spoke….”

  Just then, Señor Luis walks in, so Kitsy starts talking even faster, “We usually go as couples in a big group. I’ll find someone to ask you. Did you know Rider’s performing? Maybe he’ll come to the bonfire afterward. That’d be perfect. I promise I’ll help you with this because I love playing matchmaker. I just wish you liked Bubby. Then we could hang out more.” With that, Kitsy slips into her front-row desk and focuses her attention on Señor Luis.

  Then class starts so I don’t have any time to get more dirt on Rider or to figure out who Kitsy has in mind to be my date to the dance.

  Hands and Kitsy pick me up from Ginger’s stables on Wednesday. Hands’s practice jersey is caked in mud and grass. And the smell of his truck makes even the worst taxicabs seem like they were just freshly cleaned.

  “Hands is just dropping us off. He’s going to eat his weight at the pizza buffet while we shop. He knows what are girl things and what are boy things. That’s why I love him,” Kitsy says, and rubs his shoulder, then shrieks and pulls her hand back.

  “Ewww, you are sopping wet. Ugh, dating football players is the worst,” Kitsy teases, and then pecks Hands on the cheek.

  Hopefully, there’s a shower at the pizza buffet. Otherwise, I might just lose my lunch on the ride back.

  “Just call me Mr. Chauffeur,” Hands says before peeling out of the stable’s parking lot. “You have those in New York, right?”

  “Oh,” Kitsy squeals, “I found you a date for the dance. You might not be happy, though. See, you need to go with someone in our group so we can drive together, eat together, do pictures together and all that. And all the guys on the team asked their dates last week because they are totally hunted. It’s like deer season for girls who are total football jersey chasers. It’s pathetic; these girls’ main goal in life is to get a football player for a boyfriend or at least get one for a night.” Kitsy rolls her eyes and pauses. “And so the only person in our group without a date is…Bubby. You see, Bubby won’t go out with jersey chasers; he says it’s like finding a fish in an aquarium. Too easy. Of course, it wouldn’t be, like, romantic or anything. And Bubby promised to be nice or at least nicer.”

  Hands raises an eyebrow as he floors the truck down the backcountry road.

  “Bubby agreed to take me?” I ask, trying not to freak out about Hands’s driving. Just today in Spanish class, Bubby asked me if I popped my collar to remind everyone how stuck-up I am. Doesn’t he know that’s what you do with a collar? He takes any chance to be a jerk. It’s like he’s bitter about what happened, like, twenty-five years ago. My mom dumped your dad. Get over it. I don’t even know who my mom was back then. She was an entirely different person who wore bedazzled shirts. I can’t be responsible for her past actions, especially her fashion faux pas.

  “Of course he did,” Kitsy says, and playfully slaps Hands on the back of the head. “It’s too bad that you heart Rider because it would be awesome if you had a boyfriend in our group.”

  “You like Rider?” Hands says, taking his eyes off the road long enough to look at me like I am an alien.

  He focuses back on the road. “Good luck with that. I am not sure he’s into girls. He only talks about music and his band and hitting it big. He wouldn’t notice a hot girl if she bit him. Why try to be all rock star without the scoring-hot-chicks part? Isn’t that the entire purpose of it all?” Hands says, and shakes his head.

  My face flushes when Kitsy outs me about Rider, so I look out the window for a second. Breathe. Remember that Rider is the one thing that might make this situation all better. What’s that New Age philosophy? Put your thoughts into the universe and you’ll get what you want.

  “Yes, Rider’s totally cute,” I underplay. I don’t mention that he’s an eleven on a scale of one to ten. “I don’t think he’s gay. He’s just career-driven, which I am used to since I am from New York. And I am going to be the first girl he goes for. But yeah, I’ll go with Bubby to the dance because you two are my only friends in Broken Spoke, so I want to be with you guys.”

  “‘You guys,’” Kitsy mimics. “I just love how you say ‘you guys.’ I am going to use that. Okay, you guys, we’re at the mall. Let’s do this, you guys. You guys are great.”

  “Y’all are annoying,” Hands jokes as he pulls into a parking lot.

  The mall is actually what I believe is called a strip mall. We drove at eighty miles an hour for twenty minutes to two towns away and this is the best we can do? Finding a dress is so not going to happen. Hands jumps out and opens our door.

  “See you guys in an hour,” he says, and jogs to the pizza buffet.

  Kitsy and I walk into Charlotte Russe, a store with a serious overload of fluorescent lights. There are racks of clothes everywhere from floor to ceiling. Tons of the merchandise has fallen off the rack and is lying on the floor. There’s also a huge line for the dressing rooms. I long for the days of DJs and free champagne at Barneys. I’d even put up with age discrimination right about now.

  “Where do we even start?” I murmur as I check prices. A dress for $24.99? Is that a payment plan $24.99 now and pay the rest later? How can an adult dress cost $24.99? Well, the dress does have boob cups and a very oddly placed flower. In my purse, I have sixty-five dollars—forty-five of my own from work and twenty that Grandpa slipped me this morning. While I might have plenty of money for this type of shopping, I am not convinced that there’s anything in here that I even want to touch my skin. I think I saw a Dateline special about someone who got a rash from places like this. Or maybe that was a massage parlor. I can’t remember.

  “Here’s the deal,” Kitsy says, scanning the store. “Most of the dresses are horrendous. And then there’s ten percent that are banging. Luckily, most girls can’t tell the difference, so we should be able to find some good stuff. Let’s just both pull what we think might work, and we’ll bring it all into a dressing room.”


  For the sake of my sanity, I pretend that I am the host of Dress for Less. Remember, I tell myself, there are great deals to be found everywhere, especially in a recession. Keep it simple; a little black dress always works as a good base. You can then accessorize with more expensive pieces. Mix high and low. With my motivational monologue running through my head, I spot a few potential winners: a black bandage dress, a sequined gold mini, a bright blue halter dress, and a red strapless number. I meet up with Kitsy, whose petite frame is weighed down with about twenty dresses. She might topple over.

  “Wow,” Kitsy says, “great finds. I knew that this would be fun. Okay, let’s get a dressing room and have ourselves a fashion show. I picked out some dresses that I thought would work well on you too.”

  After waiting forever in the dressing room line, Kitsy and I start trying on our stash. This whole experience violates my shopping rules: no malls, no shopping with friends, no clothes that cost less than an order of sushi. But when in a strip mall with no other options, do as your only Broken Spoke friend does.

  Kitsy throws me a backless black dress with a high neck.

  “This will be hot on you. You’ve got a great back. I would say it’s the shoveling, but you’ve only worked three days. Did I tell you I work at Sonic? Just on Saturdays when we don’t have games. The manager’s awesome and he lets me work around my mom. Sonic’s cool, too, because everyone hangs out there when they aren’t at the field.”

  I apply my filter and don’t say that I hope Sonic is a Broken Spoke rite of passage that I can skip.

  As I examine the dress Kitsy gave me, I am shocked that it’s surprisingly attractive. “Are you sure that you don’t want this dress, Kitsy?” I ask, admiring the gold studding on the hem and sticker price of $24.99. “You found it.”

  “No way!” she says. “I got it thinking of you. Besides, I want to do red. I am so bored with gray. What kind of school color is that?”