Where I Belong Read online

  “…And so we’re going to need to make some changes…” My mom trails off as she pushes her chicken around her plate.

  My parents just stare at me and appear to be waiting for me to respond. I must’ve missed something during that whole gray-hair train of thought.

  “Sorry, guys, I am way too discombobulated. Can we do a rewind?” I say, checking my watch.

  “Honey, I said that I got laid off, and we lost a significant chunk of savings with a bad investment, a Madoff-type situation,” my dad says.

  “What? Who is Madoff?” I ask. This is getting more Twilight Zone by the second.

  “What have I been paying your school tuition for?” My mom puts down her fork, grabs her head, and gazes at the table.

  “Madoff is a man who said he invested money when he did not. Amazingly, it’s happened again,” my dad says very slowly as if he is processing it himself. “And it’s happened to us. A person I considered a dear friend of mine had a firm where we invested our entire savings. Except he didn’t actually invest our money; he embezzled it. We lost nearly every dime, including the cash that we just invested from the sale of the Nantucket cottage, the money we were supposed to use for the new Nantucket house.” And my dad swallows hard as if he had just eaten a jawbreaker whole.

  “What are the changes for us?” Tripp asks before picking up a leg of chicken and ingesting it almost whole. He’s a caveman, but a small one like Bam-Bam from The Flintstones. Of course, he got the great metabolism, too.

  “Luckily, one of your granddad’s old associates who heard about my job situation offered me a job in Dubai—that’s in the Middle East—and it will help us start earning again, but it doesn’t pay nearly as much as my old job. We have to make a lot of sacrifices. First thing is that we’ll need to sell the apartment,” says Dad.

  Mom reaches over and puts her hand on my dad’s shoulder.

  She opens her mouth, pauses, and then starts again. “Kids, we need to save money wherever we can to cover ourselves. I’m sorry, Corrinne, but you won’t be going to Kent in the fall, and the three of us…” My mom trails off again.

  Taking a deep breath, she continues, “The three of us are going to Broken Spoke to move in with my parents. We’re doing this because we can’t afford to live in the apartment or in New York City in general. It’s way too expensive. Plus, we owe a lot of money for the new Nantucket house construction. We have to try to sell the apartment quickly to cover these debts. And we are going to be lucky if we don’t have to declare bankruptcy.”

  At this, I am pretty sure I caught asthma. I can’t breathe. I’m not going to KENT!!! How can this be? If we did get to be roommates, Waverly and I had decided we would do coral and turquoise as our color palette. (Fuchsia and lime is way overdone.) Smith Cunnington, the hottest senior at Kent, has already requested my Facebook friendship, and the equestrian coach told me that I was varsity material after she saw me ride Sweetbread in my last competition.

  “It’s a recession, kids,” my dad says. “We’ll overcome it, but it takes time. I am lucky to get another job at all. Unemployment is over thirteen percent.”

  Tripp plays with his food a bit and then smiles. “Don’t worry, Dad. Texas will be okay. I’ll miss you, but I am definitely excited to get cowboy boots.”

  Wait, cowboy boots? Why are we talking about appropriate footwear for Texas? Holy Holly Golightly! Not only am I not going to Kent, but I am also moving to Texas. This must be an April Fools’ joke, except it’s August and my parents don’t do funny. And Tripp’s excited? Why can’t he be a normal kid like everyone else and throw tantrums at the appropriate times?

  “Tripp, you’ve never even been to Texas,” I argue. “And we barely know your parents, Mom. It’s messed up that we’re not even allowed to talk to anyone on the subway, and all of a sudden it’s okay to live with near strangers in the middle of nowhere.”

  Fact: We’ve met Mom’s parents on only three occasions, and each time they visited us in New York. Each trip, my mom went nuts trying to convince her parents that they didn’t want to do the double-decker bus tour again or eat at the Olive Garden in Times Square again. Grandma and Grandpa are nice and all, but the only instance that I see the words Broken Spoke is when I write thank-you letters for Grandma’s homemade blackberry jam.

  Mom picks up her fork, goes to eat, and puts it down again. “Well, this will give you an opportunity to get to know them and the town I grew up in,” she says.

  The town she grew up in? The words Broken Spoke never pass my mother’s collagen-infused lips. When people ask my mom where she is from, she says, “The Dallas area.” I know from getting bored in geography class that Broken Spoke is only in the Dallas area if that area is 175 miles wide and extends to Bumble Fricking Nowhere.

  Mom gulps down the rest of her wine and gently puts her hand over my dad’s.

  “And kids, one more thing: School starts in two weeks in Texas, so we need to begin packing,” she adds.

  “OMG. This better be a joke. I didn’t have a PSAT tutor as a freshmen to get into the best boarding school so I could end up in a small-town school in Texas. Please don’t tell me it’s a public school. And what about Sweetbread? Won’t it be hot in Texas for her? She’s used to Connecticut weather. I am going to count down from ten, and before I get to one you guys will let me know that this is a joke.”

  I push my chair out, and it makes a loud screeching noise. Tripp plugs his ears.

  “Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…” I count, then pause for a long time. My parents’ faces haven’t changed except they are now looking at me with raised eyebrows and tired eyes. I don’t even bother saying “one.” This isn’t a joke. This is a nightmare.

  “Corrinne, Sweetbread’s going to stay at the riding club in Connecticut. I called them. They were nice enough to cut us a deal and we won’t have to sell her,” Dad says. “We worked hard to let you keep her.”

  “Not that there’s a good market for overpriced thoroughbreds anyway,” my mom says softly but loud enough for me to hear.

  “Sweetbread’s a Trakehner horse, Mom. They are rare purebreds, not that you’ve ever really paid attention to my riding. I am out of here. Wait, any more bad news, anyone? Is the world ending tomorrow? Actually, that would be great news right about now.”

  Leaving my uneaten food, I storm to my room and text Waverly.

  Corrinne: SOS. Coming to you. Don’t drink all the wine. I need it for inspiration to figure out how 2 save my life.

  Outside the apartment, I temporarily debate taking the subway since we are apparently now almost bankrupt, but I don’t have the energy. I flag down a cab, get in, rest my head against the window, and cry.

  Chapter 2

  National Sweetbread

  INSTEAD OF CONSTRUCTING A PLAN to somehow still attend Kent, I drowned my sorrows with wine and sobbed at the table. And in the following days, I’ve gotten no closer to constructing a plan. So now it’s two days before the day of doom—the move to Texas—and I’ve decided to launch one last desperate plea. If I am really going to Texas, Sweetbread is coming with me. I walk into the living room determined to convince my parents of this.

  “Dad,” I start, “I’ve seen you do business, and I know that sometimes in business you have to pull the ultimatum card. So here it is: I am not going to Texas without Sweetbread.”

  My parents exchange quick glances with each other and then look at me with this-is-not-up-for-discussion faces.

  “Corrinne,” my dad starts, “you should try being more grateful.”

  Grateful for what? My misery? But I keep these thoughts to myself. The one who talks the most in negotiations always loses. Or at least I think that’s the rule.

  “It could be so much worse, Corrinne,” my mom says as she pats my back. “You don’t have to sell Sweetbread. Or at least not right now.”

  And then I lose it: I start bawling. I can’t even speak, much less negotiate. If I could talk, I would tell my p
arents that I would sell Tripp on the black market before I even considered selling Sweetbread. My only worry is that there’s not a good market for useless little brothers. According to the news, there’s not a good market for anything right now.

  “You should go say good-bye to her tomorrow,” my mom says, coming over to wrap her arms around me. I don’t hug her back. “You’ll feel better when you talk to Sweetbread. And you’ll see her again soon, Corrinne. Bad times don’t last forever.”

  “When exactly will they be over?” I choke out between sobs.

  My mother doesn’t answer me, so I retreat back to my room, defeated, and flop on my bed.

  Closing my eyes, I imagine running away with Sweetbread, galloping out of the barn and just going. And I’ll wear something really cute when I do it. We’ll keep riding until somehow we outrun this nightmare. Unfortunately, Connecticut and its surrounding areas don’t have good places for a teenager and a horse to hide out. The cops would be on us before we made it to the Merritt Parkway.

  Curling up into a ball, I clutch my gold-plated framed picture of Sweetbread, the one with the inscription A Girl’s Best Friend (After Diamonds, of Course), and drift asleep.

  The next morning, the town car waits for me in front of the building. I jump in, and we head uptown to pick up Waverly. She agreed to come with me to visit Sweetbread at the Blue Spruce Riding Club to say good-bye. I was surprised she agreed because she calls all horses filthy beasts and wishes they would become extinct like the dinosaurs.

  Approaching Waverly’s town house, I spot her waiting on the stoop. She hops in, and we start the drive out to Connecticut.

  “I can’t believe I am going to a barn. The only thing I hate more than animals are animal homes.” Waverly says. “You remember that I think the only good use for animals is fur, right?”

  Of course I know this. Waverly despises animals so much she once even lobbied her building’s co-op board to ban all pets. It’s home, not a zoo was her opening line.

  “You sound like Cruella de Vil,” I say.

  Waverly’s eyes light up as she checks herself out in the rearview mirror. “Really,” she says. “That’s awesome. I have always really admired her sense of style.”

  I giggle a little, but then I remember this isn’t just Waverly and me on a road trip. This is a journey to say good-bye to my Sweetbread, who I have known since she was a tiny colt. She’s practically my own child. I should dial PETA on this: Would some activists please at least consider splashing my parents with blood?

  Maybe Waverly notices my sadness because she says, “I am happy to come with you to the barn. I am practically Sweetbread’s godmother since you are my best friend. Although I am like a rich, beautiful, distant godmother since I can’t stand animals, but she’s still my goddaughter.”

  “Thanks, Waverly,” I say, and squeeze her hand. “That means a lot to me even if it’s a totally backward compliment.”

  Waverly squeezes back. “Just one thing, Corrinne,” she says, and then pauses. “You don’t mind if I don’t come into the stables with you, right? I am really not looking for manure to be my new scent.”

  I roll my eyes and shake on it.

  After we park at the stables, I get out and, true to her word, Waverly stays in the car with the driver.

  As I am walking away, Waverly shouts out the tinted window:

  “Give Sweetbread a kiss for me. Tell her that this separation won’t last long. Love is stronger than a recession. Or at least that’s what Dr. Phil said yesterday.”

  Waverly has her moments. I am really going to miss her.

  Entering the barn, I think about how many times I’ve done this exact routine. The smell of the hay, the horses, and even the manure heightens all my senses, and I start to breathe heavily. It’s not my personality to get animated about extracurricular hobbies. Here’s a secret: I am not actually interested in Global Affairs or Students for Ethical Fashion Merchandising, but I do them for college applications. I dread the meetings, and I would sleep through them if it were appropriate to wear sunglasses indoors. But I don’t ride because it’s a résumé booster; I ride because I love it. And Sweetbread, well, she’s been more loyal to me than any other friend, including Waverly, who missed my fourteenth birthday to attend a mobster-and-flapper-themed party with some douche bag.

  Moving slowly toward Sweetbread’s stall, I take in the scene. I need to remember everything about it here: This is my happy place, where I’ll go in my head when I am in Texas. And hell, I’ll add that hot Edward guy from the vampire books. It’s my happy place, after all.

  With shaky fingers, I unlatch the stall and walk in. Sweetbread neighs when she sees me. She knows; she senses my sadness. Animals are smart like that.

  I take a brush out of the grooming kit. Normally, I don’t groom Sweetbread since I am so busy with school. One of the stable hands does that for me. But now it seems right because I want to feel as close as possible to Sweetbread even if that means playing horse beautician.

  As I brush Sweetbread’s honey hair against her chocolate coat, I think about all of our times riding together. Dressage, what I compete in, is basically horse ballet and is an art form that has been practiced since the Renaissance. After five years of us working together, Sweetbread and I get better with each competition. We just scored our first nine (even a score of six is considered great), and we passed into the third level. And now, I am leaving.

  As I brush, I softly clue Sweetbread in.

  “Everyone at the stable is going to take care of you. Don’t you worry, because I will figure out something. Think of it as, like, a minivacation for me, but a staycation for you since you aren’t going anywhere.”

  I also tell her not to get jealous about Broken Spoke: Travel + Leisure editors will not be writing a feature on it anytime soon unless it’s the last place left after the apocalypse.

  And as I tell her these things, I notice how I sound just like my parents when they tried to reassure me. There’s both insincerity and uncertainty in my voice. For the first time, I realize that this is actually happening and that it might not end up okay.

  I decide not to ride Sweetbread one last time. I am afraid that I’ll go into flight mode, start a slow-speed chase, and end up on the nightly news. And then everyone would know: Corrinne Corcoran is not going to Kent; she is moving to Texas without her horse. And she now faces criminal charges.

  I wrap my arms around Sweetbread.

  “Sweetbread,” I whisper, “I promise you that I’ll be back soon. And I won’t so much as look at another horse in Texas. You are the only one for me.”

  And she is. Even if there were miraculously a stable that did dressage in Broken Spoke, which I highly doubt, I’d never try it with another horse. Training Sweetbread to respond to my subtle taps and finding our own special rhythm has taken us years. And I am lucky; many people never find the right horse to compete with. There’s no horseharmony.com for dressage that matches on twenty-nine dimensions of compatibility.

  I rest my head on Sweetbread’s chest and feel her breathing. It almost calms me down until I realize that I have to let go. After giving Sweetbread a final kiss between her eyes, I walk out and I don’t look back.

  When I slide back into the town car, Waverly looks at me with big eyes.

  “You know that fraught face isn’t your best. You kind of look like some D-list celebrity after one of her bigger benders,” she says, and shakes her head.

  Grabbing an empty water bottle, I playfully tap Waverly on the head.

  “Please,” I joke. “Even in the middle of a national disaster like this recession, I never look bad. My looks are unflappable. Really, I should be a war correspondent. In fact, I might consider that.”

  “Not a good idea,” Waverly says, shaking her head emphatically. “You’d be better for E! covering celebrity news, not real news. You wouldn’t want to accidentally start a war or something.”

  No, I wouldn’t, I think. Battling the recession is exhausting e
nough.

  And then Waverly directs the driver to Serendipity 3, the best ice-cream place in all of New York. They even have frozen hot chocolate, which is somehow made possible through cooking magic.

  “It’s not going to change things. But if you can’t eat ice cream now, when can you? There are times to diet,” Waverly says, and holds her palms up in the air, “and then there are times for ice cream.”

  With that, I pretty much forgive Waverly for missing my fourteenth birthday.

  Chapter 3

  Corrinne, You Are Not in the Village Anymore

  WE’RE AT JFK AIRPORT SECURITY. The line’s long and I so don’t want to take off my wedges and go barefoot. This is no beach. I could pick up SARS or a fungus. They should at least have those paper slippers they give out at nail places.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go through security with you, Tripp?” Mom asks. “I can get a pass.”

  “No, Mom,” Tripp says. “It’s part of the adventure.”

  “You’re such a good sport, kid,” Mom says, and I try to remember the last time that my mother complimented me. I think it was when I was eleven and I won my first riding competition. She supposedly used to ride, and maybe she thought riding would bond us. It never did though, and now she rarely even comes to my competitions.

  “Mom, maybe you should come with us through security. Isn’t it bad enough that we have to go to Broken Spoke by ourselves? Now you’re leaving us in the airport with total randoms?” I say.

  I look around and wonder if anyone here wants a ticket to nowhere, aka Broken Spoke, because I’d gladly trade mine to go anyplace else. And I can’t believe my mother’s leaving me to watch Tripp. Aren’t there professionals called “nannies” that are responsible for caring for children?