Where I Belong Read online

  “Here.” I pull the red dress out of my pile. “Try this. And I’ve been wondering about that school color thing too. Maybe you could start a revolution and get the color changed. You are the captain,” I say.

  “Thanks,” Kitsy says, taking the dress. She thinks for a second. “Actually, we can’t change the color. It’s always been gray. We don’t mess with tradition, not in Texas, and especially not when football is involved.”

  Kitsy helps me pull the dress over my head.

  “Thanks,” I say as the dress slips down over my shoulders.

  Although the room has what I refer to as “cellulite-enhancing lights” and “fat mirrors,” I have to admit that I look fierce and Kitsy is right—my back is getting sculpted.

  “Hey, Kitsy, what do you mean by the manager lets you work around your mom?”

  “Oh.” She pauses as she looks into the mirror. Red is definitely her color. “I thought your grandparents would have said something already. People talk a lot. My mom’s not exactly stable. She tries, she really does, but it’s up to me to take care of my seven-year-old brother, Kiki, a lot. Did you know that he’s the town’s champion mutton buster?”

  “Mutton buster?” I repeat, avoiding talking about Kitsy’s mother since I don’t know what to say.

  “It’s a rodeo sport where little kids ride sheep. Really pretty hysterical since sheep aren’t that big on being ridden. Kiki’s even on YouTube doing it.”

  I laugh. “I’d like to see that.” I feel bad for Kitsy. My mom’s got her problems what with being incredibly annoying and ruining my life, but she’s relatively stable and she only made me take care of Tripp that once on the plane. I wonder how Kitsy stays upbeat all the time. Maybe her pom-poms have magical powers….

  “You will see mutton busting in person” Kitsy says. “The town rodeo’s not that far away. Kiki’s favored to win again.” She turns to face me. “So what do you think? Is the red okay? I know I don’t look like your city friends. But will it do?”

  “You look beautiful,” I say, and mean it. After all, most people can’t pull off a $24.99 dress. I guess it’s like that saying, the girl should wear the dress; the dress shouldn’t wear the girl. Maybe wealthy women in New York do pay too much money for clothes.

  Taking in the compliment, Kitsy blushes and looks away to her reflection.

  “Saturday’s going to be awesome,” she says. “Rider’s going to need a defibrillator when he sees you in that. Oh yeah, I think we’re going to Chin’s beforehand. You know, the only other restaurant besides Sonic.”

  “Great,” I say, and I almost mean it. Having something to look forward to makes Texas—and life—more bearable, even if it does involve Bubby, who I still haven’t forgiven for being such a jerk. Most important, I get to see Rider onstage. You always remember the first time you see someone perform live, especially when you plan to date him. I can’t wait to recount that first concert when Rider and I get interviewed after he makes it big and tells everyone how I am his muse.

  Chapter 9

  Not Just Another Day at the Spa

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU LEAVE ME

  Message: I am at Kent!!!!! And I got an exchange student for a roommate. Her name is Vladlena. I am not even sure I can pronounce it. She better shower daily. First you leave me, then this. What happened in my past life that makes me deserve this?

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Re: WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU LEAVE ME

  Message: VLADLENA! Where’s she from? She speaks English, right? Keep covering for me. There’s always second semester. And whenever you think your life is bad, remember Corrinne’s in the middle of nowhere Texas living with her grandparents. That’ll give you some perspective.

  I try calling Waverly to get updates and see if there have been any Smith spottings, but she doesn’t answer. She just texts back:

  Waverly: Wish u were here. This isn’t how it’s supposed 2 B.

  I think it’s whack that she blames me for messing up our rooming plan. She should be mad at my parents and the government but not me. I am an innocent bystander to the recession’s slaughter.

  The week passes quickly despite the fact that Waverly doesn’t call me back and Rider says only about two words to me at work. But I caught him humming once, and it gave me goose bumps. I totally think he has it: the star factor. After thinking over Rider’s nonchalant attitude toward me, I have an epiphany: Rider isn’t that into me at the stables because he must believe in the separation of work and play. The dance will be another story.

  The Broken Spoke football team wins on Friday, so the whole town is on natural uppers. At the game, I sit with Tripp and his friends. I am not sure what’s worse: sitting with seventh graders or seventy-year-olds. His friends seem decent enough for hicks. He seems happy, but Tripp always seems happy, which is something I definitely don’t share the genetic disposition for. He even said to me after the game, “Thanks, Corrinne, that was awesome that you hung out with me. You wouldn’t ever have done that in the city.” He’s right about that, but in the city I would have never gone to a football game, never mind one with my little brother. But when in Broken Spoke, do as Broken Spokers do, I guess.

  I wake up on Saturday, completely sore from working for an entire week. No one’s more baffled by that than me. Thinking of it, I should make sure that’s legal under child labor laws. And I only have seventy dollars to show for it. Hopefully, Bubby will pay for my dinner at Chin’s tonight. Really, it’s the least that he can do after pestering me all week. “Looking forward to Saturday, Manhattan,” he said. “I hope a city girl like you knows how to two-step.” Two-step? I doubt Friday Night After the Lights will be singing do-si-dos. At least, I hope not. And I am certainly not dancing with Bubby. The last thing I want is to have Rider see me with that meathead—even if Bubby did score two touchdowns yesterday.

  My pre-party routine used to consist of an early workout, manicure, pedicure, a ten-minute massage while my nails dried, a blow-out, makeup, and if I was lucky, a pre-cocktail or two. In Texas, I haven’t seen any nail or hair places, not even at the strip mall. I guess I am now my own personal hairdresser and stylist. Just call me Ken Paves meets Rachel Zoe. Remembering Waverly and me sitting side by side at Bliss Spa, getting pampered and not even thinking twice before paying extra for the spa pedicure, makes me depressed.

  In my room, I can smell breakfast brewing, so I decide it’s time for some emotional eating. The beauty of a backless dress is that it’s the back—not the arms, the stomach, or the legs—that are on display. I don’t even need to wear Spanx, which is awesome since I enjoy oxygen. Breakfast this morning is an egg casserole with chorizo. It’s amazing. Thank God for the shoveling; otherwise I’d really start to look like a corn-fed farmer’s daughter.

  “Are you excited for the big dance, Corrinne?” Tripp wants to know. “In three years, I’ll get to go to one if we still live here. I am totally okay with that as long as Dad moves here too.”

  “That would be quite the full house,” Grandma says, and raises her eyebrows.

  “Uh, Tripp,” I say, “we aren’t going to be here that long. This total up-and-coming band is playing, so I am somewhere between remotely and slightly excited for the dance. I don’t know what to do all day, though, since I don’t have work. This job stuff is messing up my lazy genes.”

  “Well, how about another driving lesson?” Grandpa says, and folds up the newspaper. “You still need to master the stoplight.”

  “Okay,” I say. “That’d be nice.” I really need to get on this driver’s license thing so that Grandma and Grandpa don’t drop me off at work every day. I want Rider to know that I am worldly, independent, and know how to drive stick.

  I imagine that driving will also distract me from thinking about what I would be doing to get ready if I were in NYC. When someone else gets you ready, it takes a wh
ole day. That’s why celebrities are so busy and look so good. It probably will only take me two hours to do it by myself, so I have time. Of course, I won’t be red carpet ready, but it’s not exactly like the Broken Spoke High School dance is going to be broadcast on HDTV.

  After my driving lesson, which I rocked even with other cars around, I get a text.

  Kitsy: I’m fixin to get ready. Want to come over?

  Why not? It’ll almost make the DIY approach fun and less pathetic. I hope Kitsy’s house is bigger than Grandma and Grandpa’s, and that she doesn’t share a bathroom with a twelve-year-old boy with seriously questionable hygiene. And I am not just talking about forgetting to put the cap back on the toothpaste.

  I text back,

  Corrinne: Sure, let me ask the grandparental units.

  I walk back into the kitchen where Grandma is—guess what?—baking.

  “Grandma, can I go to Kitsy’s to get ready for the dance?” I ask, and I walk over to taste the brownie batter.

  Grandma shields the bowl with her hands.

  “No, and use a spoon if you want to taste this,” Grandma says.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Kitsy’s mother is always around, but never there, if you know what I mean,” Grandma says as she passes me a spoon.

  I dip it deep into the batter.

  “Yeah, Kitsy said something like that. But we’re just getting ready for the dance,” I argue before licking a gob of brownie batter. “Besides, I am sixteen; I don’t exactly need adult supervision.”

  “How about this, Corrinne?” Grandma says as she continues to stir. “You can have Kitsy here. Y’all can play with makeup or do whatever you crazy teenagers do.”

  “Okay,” I say. I have been fighting enough battles lately, no reason for an unnecessary spar with Grandma.

  Kitsy seems relieved to come to my grandparents’ even though I told her that the bathroom is small and infested with prepubescent boy cooties. When she arrives at the door, she is carrying her dress and what I think you call a tackle box, a red one with a silver latch. My dad has one in Nantucket for fishing stuff.

  “You didn’t just come from fishing? Did you?” I ask, trying to sniff her for fish guts. Is there even water in Broken Spoke?

  “No, no, silly. This is makeup. Some of my mom’s and all of mine. I just didn’t have anything else to put it all into, and I found this in my garage. It used to be my dad’s. Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Houston,” Kitsy says.

  “Hello, Kitsy,” Grandpa says. “You girls have fun. Don’t know why you need to get all dolled up. You both already look beautiful. And one thing I’ll never understand about women even after eighteen years with your momma: What do you girls do in the bathroom before going out?”

  “We’ll never tell,” Kitsy says. “That’s part of the magic, Mr. Houston.”

  After Kitsy and I have both showered and blow-dried, we discuss hairstyles. I tell Kitsy to go crazy and straighten her locks. She helps me curl mine. The results are surprising in a good way; my hair now has a natural, beachy wave that looks like I belong on a resort-wear runway.

  “Do you want me to do your makeup?” Kitsy asks as she bends down for her tackle box.

  I would normally say no because unless you pay someone to do something for you why would they have any incentive to do a good job?

  But I know that Kitsy isn’t the type to sabotage, so I say, “Sure, but don’t be insulted if I wash it off. I am just used to doing things my way.”

  As I sit on the toilet with the seat down, I pass Kitsy my polka-dotted makeup bag.

  “Let me do it with mine,” Kitsy says as she reaches into the trays filled with what’s clearly drugstore makeup. Maybelline. L’Oréal. Wet n’ Wild? Ohmigod, this is going to be scary, but I shut my mouth. After twenty minutes of Kitsy penciling, shading, blushing, and glossing, she finally lets me look into the mirror. I brace myself, expecting to see a MTV reality show star, but what appears in the mirror is more like an airbrushed magazine advertisement: flawless skin, cheeks the color of peaches, and brown eyes that don’t look like they belong to a puppy dog. Kitsy’s a miracle worker.

  “Holy Holly Golightly, Kitsy!” I exclaim. “How did you get so good at this?”

  “Please,” Kitsy says. “I just had a beautiful canvas. You have killer bone structure.”

  “No, really,” I say, feeling like Cinderella, even though my story is more riches to rags than rags to riches. “How?” I stare intensely into the mirror, and I am very pleased with my reflection. My brown eyes finally match my complexion; for the first time, I no longer lust for blue eyes.

  “Well, my mom’s got a lot of makeup, and I always liked art. We didn’t have many art supplies, so I have been playing with makeup since I was pint-size. Eye shadow, blush, and mascara were like my Crayolas growing up.”

  “But it’s drugstore makeup,” I blurt.

  Kitsy just laughs and packs up her stuff. “Sometimes cheaper things, Corrinne, are really just as good as the expensive ones.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” I say, still checking myself out, “but thank you. You should do this professionally.”

  “Like in a department store?” Kitsy says. “Really? Even in New York?”

  “No, not in a department store,” I say. “Those people are annoying—always forcing you to take free perfume samples.”

  “Wait a minute.” Kitsy pauses as she relatches her box. “They give away free perfume in New York?”

  “Never mind about that,” I say, not wanting to explain the vulture perfume salespeople and their guerrilla tactics. “You need to do it in salons and at rich people’s apartments. You’d make a killing. A lot of rich people aren’t naturally attractive, so they really need your services.” And Kitsy just laughs and beams.

  When Kitsy and I emerge from the room, all dressed up in our bargain purchases, Grandpa lets out a big whistle. Kitsy and I giggle, but inside I am happy—no one’s ever whistled at me except for construction workers.

  “Corrinne,” Tripp says from the couch, “guess what the word of the year is? I just read it in the newspaper.”

  Tripp, at twelve, is already such an old man.

  “What, Tripp?” I say, pleased enough with my DIY spa day to be nice to him.

  “Recessionista,” Tripp says. “That means someone who makes the best out of this economy and finds cheap, alternative ways to live and save money. We are recessionistas.”

  Grandma laughs from the kitchen as she cuts the freshly baked brownies into perfect squares.

  “I think only girls can be recessionistas, Tripp. But you are right; Corrinne is turning into a recessionista. You, my friend, are my little recessionor. Now you girls have fun. And Corrinne, home by midnight. No ifs, buts, or ands about it.”

  Recessionista. I’d prefer fashionista, but it sure beats nouveau poor. After all, I am wearing a $24.99 dress and drugstore makeup, and I still look rocking. Now if I can just survive dinner with Bubby, I can make it to my dream boy: Rider.

  Chapter 10

  After the Lights

  I SUPPOSE CHIN’S IS THE CLASSIER CHOICE OVER SONIC, but only because Mr. Chin isn’t on roller skates and there are place mats on the tables, albeit paper Chinese calendar ones. While getting ready with Kitsy somewhat enthused me for the dance, arriving at Chin’s for a pre-dance meal reminds me just how far out of my area code I am. Back in New York in the 212, we’d pick the most expensive restaurant that might not card and enjoy parent-sponsored vodka sodas and lobsters. Now in the 806, I am about to eat at a place with an orange neon sign whose H doesn’t even light up: Here’s to a night at C IN’S.

  Stepping inside, Bubby holds the door for me.

  “C’mon in, Manhattan,” he says. “I know it isn’t the Palace Hotel, but I’ve got to tell you the egg rolls are amazing. And I hold the record for the number per sitting: fourteen.”

  “Yeah, thanks a lot for that, dude,” Hands says. “That’s part of the reason the football team is now banned fr
om the lunch buffet. You were literally eating the Chins’s profits.”

  Arriving at a four-person table in the back, Kitsy puts her hand over the seat next to her.

  “Corrinne,” she says, “sit here. We’ll save each other from listening to the playbook for the entire dinner. Honestly, I think I could coach y’all after listening to you yap for years.”

  Immediately I feel nauseated, but I can’t pinpoint if it’s from the MSG smells, the fourteen-egg-rolls story, or the entire situation.

  Behind me, I feel Bubby pulling out my chair and I sit down.

  “Don’t worry, Corrinne,” he says, leaning down toward me. “It’s a Texan thing. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea. We’re on the same page. You want to be with Kitsy, and I want to hang with Hands. It’s like a business alliance.”

  “Good,” I say. “And I appreciate the gesture, but in New York girls are equals. From now on, I’ll get my own chair.”

  Kitsy raises her eyebrows but says nothing.

  “And who says that Yankees aren’t friendly?” Bubby jokes, and Hands high-fives him.

  Filter, Corrinne, I think. For Kitsy’s sake.

  I order broccoli and fried rice because I think that’s got to be safe anywhere, even in Texas.

  After the food arrives, Mr. Chin asks, “Okay, kids, how many forks and knives?” Kitsy, Hands, and Bubby’s arms shoot up. Mr. Chin walks off to retrieve them.

  “C’mon, guys,” I say. “You’ve got to eat Chinese food with chopsticks. It tastes better. And if you don’t, well, that’s like eating cereal with a knife.”