Where I Belong Page 13

  I look around: Where is a camera when I need one? I don’t care that I am wearing a cheap, beer-stained dress. I am being serenaded by the hottest rocker ever. Talk about a new profile picture! My new Facebook status update needs to be, Sometimes your life figures out how to get amazing, See y’all on the next cover of Us Weekly.

  Rider keeps strumming. “This isn’t really my usual style, but I want to go solo eventually.”

  Brilliant, I think. Rider is already about to pull a Nick Jonas and drop his band. Smart Rider, because going solo will just get him more name recognition and he won’t just be the hot guy from that After the Lights band. He’ll be Rider Jones. And then we won’t have to deal with the band being jealous of the girlfriend—that Yoko Ono thing…. Enough talking, Rider. More singing about me. I cock my head to one side and gaze into Rider’s eyes.

  And in the telltale tune of “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” Rider strums away:

  “Almost heaven, her Levi jeans

  Third-rate small town

  Middle of nowhere

  Life is sad here

  Sadder than a teardrop

  Sadder than a broken heart

  Broken Spoke

  City girl, take me away

  To the place I belong

  New York City, Manhattan girl

  Take me there, city girl.”

  So Rider did notice my Levi’s. I blink a bunch of times and try to hold back my tears. He really did notice me; my shoveling manure wasn’t a total waste. I start a slow clap and don’t look away from Rider. He gently puts down his guitar and crawls toward me. Closing my eyes, I feel his lips on my own.

  And then in the middle of the lip lock, I hear a distinctive voice, Bubby’s voice, calling, “Manhattan, Grandma and Grandpa want you home before it’s dark. Hurry before you turn back into a stiletto.”

  Pulling back from Rider, I spot the Neanderthal getting closer. I want to tell Bubby to get lost because I am in the middle of the most romantic moment of my entire life.

  “It’s okay,” Rider says. “You should go. I need to work on the rest of your song.”

  I stand up to leave. Waverly always says act like your interest in a guy is a seven, even if it is really an eleven. And I am so calling Waverly the second I get home. I wish I could’ve iPhoned her that kiss.

  Bubby just shakes his head at me. “A city girl like you sweet on some wannabe rock star. I thought you’d be smarter, Corrinne.”

  “And I didn’t think you knew my real name,” I reply, following him to Hands’s truck and trying desperately to resist my urge to turn my head back to Rider. Never look back, Waverly says. You can undo all your hard work at playing it cool in just a single glance.

  I arrive at Grandma and Grandpa’s doorstep at 12:05 a.m. My head’s still a little fuzzy, part warm beer hangover, part I-just-fell-in-love. Crossing my fingers that my preteenlike curfew has a few minutes’ leeway, I am relieved to see the house is pitch-black.

  I fumble my way into my pitch-black room.

  “Hi, Corrinne,” a familiar voice says from the sheets.

  “Holy shit!” I stumble and fall onto the bed. “Hi, Mom.”

  “You smell like cheap beer,” my mom says, and shakes her head.

  “And you arrived unannounced,” I say, making my way under the covers.

  “Apartment officially got sold,” she says. “And I took the next flight out. I’ve missed my kids, so put on your pajamas and tell me about Texas since you don’t return my calls.”

  All I can think is Rider, Rider, Rider, world tour, magazine photo spreads, free clothes, swag, the end of this recession…but I indulge my mother. My phone call to Waverly will have to wait; she’s probably busy getting to know Vladlena anyways. I slip off my dress and put on my pajamas.

  “I hear you have a job,” my mom says as I wiggle underneath the covers. “I am proud of you, Corrinne. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  And maybe, just maybe, my mom meant that nicely, but it didn’t sound nice. I yank the comforters to my side and flip over to face the wall.

  “And I didn’t know that you were a Rodeo Queen that dated someone named Dusty and then left town because you thought you were too good,” I say, and close my eyes. “Good night, Mom.”

  “Corrinne,” my mother says sternly as she yanks back on the covers. “That’s not true.”

  “Hmm,” I whisper. “You’d better call the newspaper and get them to write an editorial then because that’s how everyone remembers you, Jenny Jo.”

  My mother sits up straight in bed, as if waking from a nightmare.

  She reaches across me and turns on the bedside lamp.

  I quickly cover my eyes with my hands.

  “Are you trying to blind me?” I shriek. “You’ve taken everything else, and now you are taking my eyesight.”

  Flipping onto my stomach, I envelop my head with a pillow.

  “Corrinne,” my mom says loudly, “don’t talk about things you don’t know.”

  I fumble for the light and switch it back off.

  “Maybe we’re just talking about things you want to forget,” I say, turning over onto my back. “Why don’t you check out that box in the closet tomorrow? I think a few of Grandma’s tears might still be in it.”

  My mom falls back into a lying position.

  “What box?” she says.

  “Oh, just the box with flower clippings, dress patterns, and recipes. You know, for the wedding Grandma planned for you, the one you shunned for the Plaza. But as you said, it’s nothing I know anything about. Night night,” I say, and roll back onto my stomach.

  “Corrinne,” my mother starts, but I don’t answer.

  “Oh God, she’s still talking about the wedding. That was twenty frickin’ years ago,” my mom mutters to herself.

  Lifting my head from the pillow, I say chipperly, “See you in the morning. Just in case you also forgot, Grandma doesn’t believe in coffee.”

  Nothing is going to ruin this night, not even sleeping in a full-size bed with my mother. “Almost heaven, her Levi jeans,” I softly sing to myself as a little lullaby.

  Chapter 11

  Back in the Saddle

  WAKING UP TO AN EMPTY BED, I hope that the Return of the Momster was just a nightmare and that she didn’t really barge back into my life on my most romantic night ever. Unfortunately I find Mom at the kitchen table, drinking a Diet Coke at nine a.m. Where’d she get that? Grandpa and Tripp are also at the table, both chowing down on pancakes. Grandma’s perched at the stove, as per usual.

  “Morning, Corrinne,” Grandpa says between bites.

  “Corrinne,” Grandma says, “do you want chocolate chips in your pancakes?” And she holds up a tablespoon of chips over the batter.

  “Yes, please,” I say. “Pumpkin or banana today?” I ask. I notice my mother’s mouth hanging wide open at me.

  “I didn’t think you ate carbs, Corrinne,” my mom says, eyeing my shape. “You’re looking thin too.”

  “Watch it, Jenny Jo,” Grandma says in a stern voice. “We don’t do the oxygen diet under my roof.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Mom,” my mom says. “It’s just surprising since she looks like she’s been dieting. From what I remember, your cooking isn’t exactly low-cal.”

  Grandma walks to the table and noisily sets down another platter, then gives Mom a look. Love it.

  “Oh, Mom,” I say, “I got this new bod with a thing called a job. Manual labor. You should try it,” I say. Old grudges die hard.

  “You used to eat pancakes when you were her age too if you remember, Jenny Jo,” Grandpa pipes up between bites.

  “Dad, don’t call me Jenny Jo. It’s J.J. now,” my mom says, almost drooling over the pancakes.

  “Grandpa,” I ask, “will you drive me to the barn? I promised Ginger that I’d help out today.” This is a total lie. I don’t work Sundays, but I am just hoping that Rider might be there. If it means I get to hang out with Rider, I’ll gladly shovel
manure for free.

  “To Ginger’s?” my mom asks, picking a bite of pancake off Tripp’s plate. “I’ll take you there.”

  “Can I come too?” Tripp begs.

  “No, Tripp,” I say. “And stop asking me that. I’m sixteen, you’re twelve. We’re not friends.”

  “Corrinne—” my mother starts.

  Grandpa interrupts, folding up his paper and tapping Tripp on the head. “I am sure what Corrinne means is that you can’t go because me and you are going on a farm call. There’s a tractor that needs fixin’.”

  “It’s okay, Grandpa,” Tripp says. “I am used to Corrinne never wanting to do anything with me. Luckily she’s not that sweet, so I really don’t care. Tractors will be cool instead.”

  Great, I am finally enjoying something—okay, someone—in Broken Spoke and Tripp’s giving me big-sister guilt. But I am not giving in to it.

  “I’ll drop you ladies off first,” Grandpa says.

  I realize quickly that I need to stop this. My mother is not invited to my romantic afternoon with Rider.

  “Mom,” I say, carefully syruping my pancakes, “why don’t you stay with Grandma and get adjusted? Maybe you can go with her to church. I don’t think that’s a place you’ve visited in a while. I really need to concentrate on my work.”

  My mom totally lifts her eyebrows at that last comment and Grandma, Grandpa, and Tripp laugh. But what do I care? I am in love and about a millimeter away from becoming famous.

  Rider’s not at the stables when I get there. I am Bummed-out Betty.

  “You aren’t on the schedule today,” Ginger says, coming out of the barn.

  “U-um,” I stammer, watching Grandpa and Tripp pull out of the parking lot, “I just came to help out.”

  Ginger’s eyes get really big.

  “Wow,” Ginger says, not hiding her surprise. “That’s kind. No offense, but I originally didn’t take you as the volunteer type.” She points to the horse in the pasture, a beautiful chestnut with a white patch on his face.

  “I know that rodeo ain’t your thing, Corrinne. But how about you take Smudge for a ride? He needs some exercise.”

  Although I made my pact to remain faithful to Sweetbread, I agree anyway. Riding a horse, even if it’s Western style, has to be better than shoveling manure for free. Plus, I am doing it for work, not pleasure, so Sweetbread would understand.

  “Where’s the saddle?” I ask. “I’ll go get it.”

  “Ain’t one,” Ginger says, and shakes her head.

  “Wait, bareback?” I ask, and my mouth gapes open. This idea totally freaks me out since I’ve never done it. Hell, I’ve never even ridden a horse in jeans! This is a long way from my stable in Connecticut.

  “When in Texas,” Ginger starts, “do as the Texans do.”

  There’s only one Texan thing—okay, Texan—I’m interested in, but I filter myself and duck under the fence to the pasture. Surprisingly I manage to climb over the top rung of the fence and get myself onto Smudge’s back.

  Ginger whistles. “Maybe there’s a cowgirl in you yet.” Once on Smudge, I totally feel like I am cheating on Sweetbread. And though I don’t want to admit it, being in the saddle again feels fantastic even if there isn’t actually a saddle.

  Ginger opens the gate, and I trot Smudge into the ring.

  “Just ride him around a few times, try to get his heart rate up. I am going to check on some stuff inside.” Ginger slips into her office in the barn.

  “You should try the barrels, Levi’s,” a familiar voice says. I look back. Holy Holly Golightly, it’s Rider. Sitting up straight and brushing the wisps out of my face, I give a tiny wave. Like Waverly says, present yourself like everyone’s about to take your picture, chin up, suck in, and smile.

  Now, I had seen the barrels done a couple of times when I was at the barn last week. To me, it looked like a deathtrap. The horse gallops at a breakneck pace and makes a quick turn around the barrel. There’s no beauty to it, just a lot of dust and danger. No way I’d do it unless the boy of my dreams asked me to, which he just did. And really, how hard can it be? I’ve ridden for years. I’m capable of making a horse dance.

  “Hi, Rider,” I call. “If you say so…”

  I give Smudge a big old nudge. And with that kick, Smudge takes off like the 5 Express train.

  “Eek!” I scream as I shoot backward.

  I end up soaring in the air and landing with a hard thud. My face goes red. My first thought is, Where’s Rider? And is there any way he might have missed seeing that catastrophe? I spot Rider, just standing at the corner of the ring and watching me. Flying straight out of the barn, Ginger runs toward me.

  “Corrinne, you okay? I heard a lot of commotion. Did something spook Smudge?” Ginger asks, out of breath.

  Ginger ducks into the ring and grabs onto Smudge.

  I try to push myself back up. “Holy shit!” I scream. It feels like an elephant just sat on my wrist.

  “What’s wrong, Corrinne?” Ginger says.

  “My wrist!” I wail.

  “Rider!” Ginger beckons. “Come get Smudge so I can look at Corrinne.”

  Unable to get out of what I now recognize—and smell—as manure, I sit and swear softly. Talk about cursed: Just when I think my life is getting better, all of a sudden I am sitting in shit in front of the one boy who makes Broken Spoke feel more destined than doomed. And I am also pretty sure I’ve broken my wrist.

  “Let me see,” Ginger says after passing Smudge on to Rider, who has yet to begin behaving like my knight in shining armor.

  “Yup,” Ginger says, looking at my contorted wrist. “You did a number. C’mon, I’ll drive you to the hospital. I am an old hat at this.”

  Now I decide to just let my tears fall. How can a man resist his woman’s tears? Gazing at Rider through blurry eyes. I wait for him to scoop me up, carry me to his truck, and heal me with kisses. But Rider still just stands there, holding on to Smudge and staring.

  “Feel better, Corrinne,” Rider calls as Ginger gently stands me up. “Facebook me later. Sorry—I am just more musical than medicinal. That stuff freaks me out.” As I put pressure onto my legs, everything goes black….

  After I came to at the stable, Ginger forced me to go to the ER. I must have passed out again because now I am in a hospital bed. My mom, my grandparents, and Ginger are all standing around and staring at me. When they see me open my eyes, they get really hush-hush. A doctor steps through the crowd.

  “Hello, Corrinne,” he says. “I am Dr. Sullivan. You had us scared. What’s the last thing you remember? We need to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

  I want to think this whole thing’s been a dream, that I am still in New York, that the recession didn’t happen, that I don’t smell like shit, that I didn’t break my wrist, that my last solid memory wasn’t Rider rejecting a total potential hero moment. However, I can see my arm is in a sling, my wrist is throbbing, and I am still wearing my cowboy boots, so I figure that this is real. And of course, my doctor isn’t even hot like on TV. If he were on TV, he’d be called McNotSteamyorDreamy.

  “I don’t have a concussion, just a serious case of are-you-kidding-me-is-this-my-real-life-itis,” I say.

  “The pain from your wrist caused you to pass out for a few seconds,” Dr. Sullivan says, making notes on his chart. “We’ll keep you for a couple of hours for observation in case you do have a concussion, but you should be just fine. And your wrist is only sprained, so it could be worse.”

  Worse? Really? How? My phone, I think. Where is it? Maybe Rider texted that he’s bringing flowers. Maybe we’ll still be rock royalty.

  “Where’s my phone?” I ask, searching the room for it with my eyes.

  “Kids and their technology.” Ginger laughs, rifling through her jeans back pocket to retrieve my iPhone.

  With my one good hand, I scan through my text messages. Three messages. All from Waverly.

  Waverly: Vladlena’s a Russian goddess. She’s been in
Russian Vogue 3 times.

  She definitely showers daily.

  Waverly: Call me. I want to hear how my cowgirl’s doing.

  Waverly. OHMIGOD. Smith fb’d me to ask if I need a private tour of the school. OHMIGOD. What should I wear? Underwear or no underwear?

  OHMIGOD. I might as well stay checked into the hospital indefinitely. My life stinks.

  “What can I get you, Corrinne?” my mom asks just as my phone rings.

  I am ready to silence it because I assume it’s Waverly with another message about how awesome her life is with her new BFF Vladlena and hottie-tottie Smith. But then I see it’s Kitsy, so I answer in an attempt to ignore my mother.

  “Corrinne,” Kitsy screeches. “Are you okay? Rumor is you fell off a horse. I am headed to the hospital with a Sonic Blast. I’ll be there in ten. Don’t die on me.”

  Before I can say anything, Kitsy has hung up.

  “Kitsy,” I say to Grandma and Grandpa.

  Grandpa laughs. “Kitsy talks even faster than a New Yorker. You remember Amber, Jenny Jo? She was a few years younger than you. That’s Kitsy’s mom.”

  My mom whips her head toward Grandpa and asks, “Amber from high school? The Mockingbirdette Amber? She’s still in Broken Spoke?”

  “Not everyone ran away and married money,” Grandma says. “She’s got a daughter and a son now. Corrinne is friends with Kitsy, who is a real sweet girl.”

  “Now, now,” Grandpa says. “How about we leave Corrinne with her momma?” Grandpa starts heading toward the door with Grandma and Ginger at his heels.