Where I Belong Page 14

  “I’ll make something special for tomorrow morning, Corrinne,” Grandma says, “Pancakes, French toast, muffins. You name it. You rest now.”

  “Next time you want to do the barrels,” Ginger says, “just ask. I’ll be happy to teach you like I taught your momma.” And Ginger gently shuts the door behind her.

  “Oh, honey,” my mom says, pulling up a chair and stroking my head. “How do you feel?”

  “I feel like just when my life started not to suck,” I start, “you show up, I almost break my wrist, and now I am stuck in a hospital room with you. And don’t even get me started on how some Russian heiress is sleeping in what should be my XL twin bed at Kent.”

  “I see you haven’t lost your dramatic flair,” my mom says. “I called your father to let him know about your accident. He said he was sending flowers. I tried to explain to him that Broken Spoke doesn’t have a florist. But you know how he doesn’t really understand life outside Manhattan.”

  That makes two of us, except I don’t understand life outside of Manhattan or inside the recession.

  “Oh,” I say, fumbling for the TV remote to tune out my mother. “Did they leave any painkillers at least?”

  “It’s only a sprain,” my mom says. “You were probably just a bit dehydrated from your late-night adventures. That’s why you passed out.”

  I adore how my mom thinks that everything, even this, is my fault. She probably blames the whole recession on me.

  “Knock, knock,” Kitsy squeals. Opening the door, she’s wearing her cheerleading uniform. In one hand, she’s got the promised Sonic Blast and in the other, she’s got her pom-poms. Of course.

  “Oh, hi,” Kitsy says. “You must be Corrinne’s mom. I feel terrible I didn’t bring you a Sonic Blast.”

  “A Sonic what?” my mom says, eyeing the soupy chocolate and peanut butter ice-cream mess.

  “Sonic Blast,” Kitsy says. “You don’t have Sonics in Manhattan? Excuse my manners; I am just so pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am,” my mom repeats. “I left Texas before anyone ever called me that. It makes me feel old.” Then as if remembering something, my mother extends her hand “Excuse my manners, I’m pleased to meet you too, Kitsy,” my mom says. “Are you a Mockingbirdette?” my mom asks, pointing to her pom-poms. “God, I haven’t seen those uniforms in forever. They look exactly the same.”

  Kitsy blushes. “I’m team captain. First sophomore captain ever. I think you knew my mom, too—she was a few years younger.”

  “How is your mother?” my mom says, and gets up to give Kitsy her chair.

  “She’s fine,” Kitsy says. “She’ll die when she hears you’re back in town.”

  My mom pauses and frowns. “Well, I’ll mosey down to the vending machines and let you girls chit-chat. Call me if you need anything, Corrinne.”

  Kitsy plops down on the chair. “I’ll spoon-feed you,” she says. “It’s what I do when my brother’s sick. What happened anyway?”

  “I fell off a horse…in front of Rider,” I say. “Into a pile of manure. And he didn’t even help me. Ginger was my heroine.”

  We both laugh. “Bubby’s the one who told me you were here. I have no idea how he found out. I think he has Corrinne radar,” Kitsy says before stuffing my mouth with ice-cream deliciousness. “After the dance, I am sure he’s sweet on you—everyone thinks so, even though he won’t admit it. Hands told me that Bubby said that you were a looker, for a city girl.”

  “Kitsy,” I whisper, “I couldn’t tell you in the truck last night and then my mom showed up and then this happened…but Rider kissed me. On the mouth. With tongue.”

  Kitsy rolls her eyes and takes a big spoonful for herself. “You go, girl! I knew you’d get Rider…. Bubby actually told me about the kiss too. He says that you’ll realize that Rider’s a tool soon enough, though, and come around.”

  Come around? Really, that kid is as dense as Grandma’s chocolate pound cake.

  Kitsy continues, “I told him that he seems pretty concerned for someone who supposedly isn’t sweet on you. Watch out, though: When Bubby does set his mind to something, he gets it—that’s why he’s so good at football and reporting.”

  “Even though Rider didn’t exactly have hero moves today, I’ll still choose the rock star over the hometown hero,” I say. “I don’t look particularly good in a football jersey; rock star really matches my look better. Thanks for coming, Kitsy,” I say. “Nice to have someone other than my mother to hang out with. She’s been here a day, and I already feel like I am overdosing on her.”

  “I have the opposite problem with my mom,” Kitsy says, flipping on the TV. “Let’s watch some infomercials.”

  After watching a robot that folds your clothes, I laugh hard enough to almost forget about my wrist, Rider the antihero, and Waverly, my insensitive best friend. My phone bings again with a text.

  Daddy-o: Heard about the accident. Instead of sending flowers, I emailed Waverly’s mom to see if Waverly can visit you for her fall break. I’ll use my miles for the ticket. Feel better.

  Waverly, here in Broken Spoke? That would equal social ruin…unless I could get Rider to serenade me in public with paparazzi in the wings. That might keep my PR afloat enough to cover up this whole year-in-Texas ordeal.

  Kitsy must’ve watched my face drop because she grabs my hand. “What is it?” she asks gently.

  “Oh, it’s okay.” I sigh. “My best friend from home might come to visit.”

  Slowly Kitsy pulls her hand away and stands up. “Oh,” she says. “That’s—um, that’s great. We’ll have to think of fun stuff to do if it happens. I gotta run, I’m meeting the Mockingbirdettes. We have a team picture! Let me know if you need anything.”

  When my mom comes back in after Kitsy leaves, she reclaims her chair.

  “Did you hear the good news?” she asks. “Your dad wants to use his miles so Waverly can visit.”

  Once again I get the sickening feeling that I am not sure this is good news.

  “Mom,” I ask, “are you sure they don’t do morphine for sprained wrists?”

  “Oh, Corrinne,” she says. “Your drug jokes are getting tired.” And she looks up at the TV and watches for a few seconds. “Is that robot folding clothes?” she asks.

  And we both laugh. “I might just have to buy that,” my mom says. “It will help me out since I am now our housekeeper.”

  “How recessionista,” I say. “For three easy payments of thirty-nine ninety-nine, we could have one.”

  But knowing now what it’s like to earn only $7.50 an hour, buying a folding machine doesn’t seem like a good investment, even if it means never having to fold again. Although it might be very helpful, considering that it’s impossible to fold with one arm. Then it hits me: I need to figure out how to shovel with one arm shot—otherwise I am going to miss out on quality time with Rider.

  Chapter 12

  Who’s Kate Spade?

  I STAY HOME FROM SCHOOL ON MONDAY. Why not use this sprained-wrist thing to my advantage? But by Tuesday, I am ready to go back. You can only watch so much Gossip Girl with your mother. She asks too many uncomfortable questions about who has slept with who and why. Plus, Rider added me as a friend on Facebook and sent a message that said,

  “Levi’s, I didn’t know you could fly. Doesn’t surprise me, though. Come back to school soon. Since we’re both going to Ginger’s after school, want to ride with me from now on?”

  I know that isn’t a sonnet in iambic pentameter, but it’s the closest I’ve ever come to getting a love letter. Daily one-on-one time with Rider in enclosed spaces? Sign me up!

  My mom has to help me dress on Tuesday, which is obviously awkward, especially the snapping-the-bra part.

  “I miss helping you, Corrinne,” my mom says, pulling a shirt over my head.

  “But Mom, you’re the one who always taught me to be independent. You can’t have it both ways. Besides, I should be at boarding school by myself. Instead here I am in
Texas, partially handicapped, being dressed by my mother.”

  “I really should have put you in theater,” my mom says. “You’re fabulous at being dramatic.”

  “Yes,” I said, “you should have. I could’ve been a child star and supported you guys, and then we would not be in this mess. Of course, the second you tried to steal my money, I would’ve sued for emancipation,” I say with a straight face.

  “That I believe too,” my mom says. “You have a good day at school, honey. Be careful with your arm.”

  Looking in the mirror, I think that for having to wear a sling, I still look okay.

  During Spanish class, Bubby walks to my desk in the back.

  “Manhattan,” he says, “city slickers shouldn’t be riding bareback.”

  I pucker my face.

  “I actually am a good rider,” I say. Or I was, I think. “The horse just got spooked or something.”

  “Mm-hm,” Bubby replies, and nods as if to say “Surrrre.” “It had nothing to do with a certain boy that was there?”

  Giving him the evil eye, I open my Spanish book and fake study.

  “Just so you know,” Bubby says before returning to his seat, “if I had been there, I would have carried you to the hospital on my back.”

  On the way out of class, Bubby offers to take my books, and I let him. Maybe he isn’t a complete Neanderthal, especially since he finally shaved that stubble.

  After school Rider and I take his car to pick up Tripp before we go to the barn. While I wasn’t keen on having Tripp be the third wheel to our twosome car dates, I realized I need Tripp since I am crippled. He promised to do all my dirty work for half my pay. So basically, Tripp will do my job, and I will get paid to hang out with Rider. That part is genius, I know.

  When we arrive at Tripp’s middle school, he jumps right into the car.

  “What’s her name?” he asks Rider.

  “Name?” Rider repeats.

  “Yes,” Tripp says. “Grandpa’s truck is Billie Jean, and that Hands guy has Banana. So what’s this car’s name?”

  “It doesn’t have one. Only hicks name their cars,” Rider says.

  Tripp’s face deflates.

  But I don’t say anything. Rider is right, after all.

  Maybe Rider senses Tripp’s hurt because at the stop sign, Rider turns right and pulls down a side road.

  “Hey, Tripp, have you ever seen our state flower?”

  “The bluebonnet,” I answer. Thank you, Texas State History.

  “We hate the Bluebonnets,” Tripp says. “They’re our biggest rival in football. They are the same team that almost beat Grandpa’s team for State fifty-two years ago. Final score: forty-two to thirty-five. It was a close one.”

  “That’s true,” Rider answers. “But the actual flower is incredible—it grows to like a foot high. They usually don’t last until fall, but I know where some still are. A popular Texas tradition is to take portraits with them. Want to become an authentic Texan and get your photo taken, Tripp?”

  “Totally,” Tripp says. “I am half Texan by blood. And we can make a Facebook album.”

  Ducking under a fence, Tripp, Rider, and I walk into a green field. In a shaded corner, a few bluebonnets still stand triumphantly.

  If a fashion designer saw this, bluebonnet would totally be the color of the year.

  Tripp plops down into the flowers. I pull out my iPhone and he puts on a photo shoot. I don’t even make fun of him for his ridiculous poses because I like this big-brother side of Rider. It almost makes up for him leaving me in the manure.

  On our way back to the car, Rider picks me a bluebonnet, and I tuck it behind my ear. I am so pressing it in my geography book tonight. No one has ever given me flowers before except for corsages that were obviously picked out by my dates’ mothers, not my dates.

  As we drive up to the stables, Ginger comes out of the barn when she sees me.

  “You are full of surprises, Corrinne,” she says. “But I am not exactly sure how you are going to work with one hand.”

  “That’s why she brought me,” Tripp pipes up. “I am going to help her—like an intern.”

  “What a brother you are!” Ginger says, and claps her hands.

  “Well, I am working on my résumé and work experience,” Tripp says. “The business world is shaky these days, and you can’t start too young.” We laugh because Tripp is serious. It makes me miss my dad a little bit. He’d be proud: two employed children.

  “Okay, Tripp,” Ginger says. “Follow Rider into the barn. Teach him well, Rider.” And without even a good-bye, the two of them leave me with Ginger.

  “You, girl,” she says, pointing her finger at me, “are going to help me get ready for the rodeo. You can’t break anything doing office work.”

  I want to scream and run into the barn to be near Rider. But, as Waverly always says, make sure the boy knows that you have a life too. So I decide to be a working woman and embark on my first office job. I follow Ginger into a small structure that houses the gift shop (lame T-shirts and key chains) and a tiny office.

  Ginger points to her messy desk, complete with towering piles of paper that make the Leaning Tower of Pisa look like it has good posture.

  “You are going to go through the submissions for the rodeo and enter the applicants into the database. This is how we’ll make the program for the different events—the Rodeo Queen, the barrel racing, the mutton busting, et cetera, et cetera.”

  Two hours into being a secretary with only one good hand, I am miserable. Maybe there’s an infomercial where I can buy a robot to do my job. Ten thousand butterflies collide in my stomach when Rider steps into the office.

  “Hey, Levi’s, it’s quitting time. Your brother’s a hell of a lot better at shoveling than you are, but I missed the view. You do look cute behind a desk too, though.”

  I try not to blush.

  “Oh, Rider,” I say, rolling my eyes at all the paperwork. “I didn’t realize how monumental the rodeo is. There’s like twenty events and a zillion competitors.”

  “Yeah, it’s the number one moneymaking event in town, after the football concessions, of course. The profits keep this place going,” Rider says. “My band’s playing, too. It’s sorta amateur, but we can’t give up a chance for publicity.”

  “You guys will be great,” I say as I slip by Rider and accidentally (okay, not accidentally) touch his hand. “But I thought you were going solo.”

  “Harder to get a solo gig,” Rider says. “Hey, did you know anyone in the business back in Manhattan?”

  “What business?” I ask, heading to Rider’s car, where Tripp is waiting.

  “The music business, Corrinne,” Rider says, exasperated.

  Oh, I am so dumb.

  “Of course,” I say, happy to be able to impress him. “My friend’s dad is 212 Degrees’s agent.”

  Rider stops dead in his tracks. “Your friend’s dad is Phil Porticelli?”

  “Yup,” I say, and smile. One hundred points for Corrinne.

  “That’s amazing. He’s legendary.” Rider is almost gasping for air when he gets into the car. “Could you send my demo to him?”

  OMG, I think. I am just name-dropping. I haven’t talked to Phil Porticelli’s daughter, Portia, since middle school. And I was slightly responsible for her getting blacklisted from the Sexy Six when we decided to become the Fab Five. No way would she or her dad ever be willing to help me.

  “Sure,” I lie. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Rider leans over—with Tripp in the backseat—and kisses me on the cheek. “Thanks, Levi’s.”

  “Sick,” Tripp squeals. “I want to go home.” But I pay no attention. My life just got back on track.

  I finally get Waverly on the phone. We’ve barely talked since I left New York. We text, we Facebook, I follow her tweets about Kent this and Kent that, but there haven’t been any epic calls like we usually have when we are apart. Now, this might be due to the fact that I don’t want to hear
about her Holy Trinity: Kent, Smith, and Vladlena. But I do want to tell her about Rider and my song. I also need to figure out if she’s really coming to Broken Spoke so I can go into crisis-control mode.

  “Waverly!” I squeal when she picks up before voice mail.

  “Cowgirl,” she says with a fake Texan accent. “How y’all doing?” I let the “y’all” thing slide. She’ll figure out Texan grammar once she visits.

  “Did your mom get my dad’s email?” I say, and pause. “About you visiting?”

  “Yup,” she says. “My mom and your dad even booked my ticket. Everyone goes away for fall break, and I am happy not to go back to the city. NYC is so boring this year; everyone is staying home all the time and saving money. Besides, Smith’s going on college visits, so it’s perfect.”

  Waverly in Broken Spoke? She’s going to feel like Dorothy when she first steps into Oz, except Texans aren’t as cute as Munchkins. And they don’t sing. And wait, how does she know that Smith’s going on college visits? She totally boynapped my Prince Charming.

  “Waverly,” I start, making sure my door is locked so my mom won’t barge in, “are you with Smith?” I don’t really want to know the answer because until Texas happened, I thought it would be me who was his arm candy.

  “God no,” Waverly says. “We’re just hooking up. You know how it is.”

  And of course I do. Neither Waverly nor I has had real boyfriends. I am hoping that I’ll be able to call Rider my boyfriend by the time Waverly shows up. Finally, I’d be the first at something.

  “What should I pack?” Waverly says. “What department stores do you have there?”

  Um, I think. How do I put this gently? Broken Spoke is the heart of darkness for department stores. The horror, the horror. “The town’s actually having a big event that weekend, so we probably won’t have time to shop. Just pack as much as you can.”

  “Well, duh,” Waverly says. “I am thinking about emergencies. What’s the big event? Charity gala?”