Where I Belong Read online

  At lunch, I can’t force myself to go to the cafeteria. I doubt they went locally organic like my old school did. For the past week, Grandpa raved about the pizza—sometimes he drops by and eats with Grandma. Although I admit I’m curious to see if public school cafeterias are really like the movies where cliques divide the room into war zones. At my old school, there were only two groups: really cool preps and kids that wanted to be really cool preps. But I didn’t want to do that whole awkward sit-alone thing or—even worse—the sit-with-your-grandma-and-the-other-secretaries thing. So instead I got my latest issue of Vogue out of my locker and I spent lunch hour in the empty library. Maybe Texas won’t be so bad for my diet after all.

  Bzzzzzzzzzz! goes the school bell.

  I’ve never attended a school with an actual bell. I thought school bells were make-believe and only existed on TV sitcoms. But when that final bell rings, it sounds like angels singing, despite the fact that it’s most certainly damaging my eardrums. I don’t care because I am saved—at least until tomorrow.

  In my past life, I would have had riding or field hockey practice after classes. But here, the only fall sports for girls are cheerleading and swimming. Private schools in New York as a rule don’t do cheerleading; it’s sexist. Besides, I am not exactly an enthusiastic person. And swimming? Double please. All that chlorine eats your tan and leaves you a pale green-haired monster.

  The rest of the students are lingering and chatting in the crowded halls. But not me. I head to my locker, bend, and grab my purse. If I knew I wouldn’t trip over my three-inch wedges, I’d sprint out of here.

  Just as I pull myself up from the bottom locker and turn around, I smack into that Bubby kid from Spanish.

  “Whoa, Manhattan,” he says, tilting his head to mirror mine. “This isn’t New York. In Texas, we don’t do the speed-walking thing. What’s the hurry?”

  I want to answer that I am trying to make the red-eye back to New York, but that would involve carjacking and a four-hour road trip through Nowhereville. Oh, and I don’t even have my license.

  Instead I say, “Just going back to my grandparents’ place,” and try to move around Bubby.

  “Are you going to do any clubs?” Bubby says as he blocks my path. “Today’s sign-up day, and a lot of them are having informational meetings in the gym right now. I am on the newspaper staff.”

  Again, I bite my tongue because I am working on my filter. But all I can think is: What news is there in Broken Spoke? What happens here that’s worth writing about?

  I give my best fake smile. Thank you, cotillion.

  “I appreciate you letting me know,” I say. “But Texas is temporary for me. It’s like a detour.”

  “Well, where’s the final destination? And until you get there, I think you’d be good at newspaper, and I’m a reporter, so I should know. You could do a fashion column and give us some New York–girl tips. Like Carrie Bradshaw. My sister makes me watch Sex and the City reruns,” Bubby says, and grins.

  Oh, I could give some tips, I think. How about: a) keep the boots in the barn, b) keep the hairspray in the bottle, c) the ’80s ended twenty years ago, and d) letter jackets aren’t seasonably appropriate for August in Texas.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” I say, and sidestep Bubby. If I am forced to live here, the last thing I am going to do is get involved. That would be total surrender.

  Heading straight for the door, I don’t even say good-bye. In my head, I’ve already gone to my happy place. And Bubby, the final destination is anywhere but here.

  Grandpa drops Tripp, Grandma, and me home because he has one more farm call.

  Grandma rushes to the humid kitchen.

  “Tomorrow’s my day for treats at the office, kids. I need to make my specialty, Cowboy Cinnamon Bread,” Grandma says as she takes five sticks of butter out of the fridge. “But first I’ll make y’all an afternoon snack. How about peanut butter sandwiches?”

  The thought of peanut butter makes my stomach rumble since I am starving from skipping lunch. But I shake my head just as Tripp enthusiastically nods his.

  “Corrinne, it wasn’t really a question. You need to get off that ‘air’ diet that your mother and her city friends seem to adore. Hunger doesn’t look good on a woman. My parents didn’t live through the Depression to see my grandchild choose skinny as a fashion statement.”

  I want to tell Grandma that the ten extra pounds on her hips don’t exactly work with designer sizes, but I am pretty sure that comment might morph Grandma into a Furious Franny.

  Grandma takes out Wonder white bread. The last time I ate white bread I was in elementary school. It’s like Mayor Bloomberg outlawed it along with the trans-fats. Grandma toasts, butters, and then peanut butters the bread. The sandwich gives my mouth the same tingles that the pancakes did. If only Grandma could find a little style, she could get her own Food Network show and get out of this town.

  “How come my mom doesn’t know how to cook, Grandma? Why didn’t you teach her?” Tripp asks, and I can tell by my grandma’s eyes that he’s walking into a landmine.

  “Some people just don’t want to learn, Tripp. Do you and Corrinne want to see how to make Cowboy Cinnamon Bread?” Grandma pulls out a bowl and violently cracks four eggs into it.

  “Yup,” Tripp says, and moves closer to watch.

  “And how was your first day of school, Tripp?” Grandma asks.

  “Great. The kids are pretty cool. I need to get some cowboy boots. I was the only person in Top-Siders, so I felt lame.”

  “Don’t let anyone judge you by your shoes, Tripp,” Grandma says, which I think is hysterical. Grandma probably doesn’t even know what Top-Siders are or how much they cost. But I guess there’s no need for boat shoes in a desert.

  I really don’t want to help Grandma bake, but I also don’t have much homework, there’s no cable, and calling Waverly will make me more depressed. She’s in the Hamptons, and I am in hell. What would I even say about the first day of school? Imagine a horror movie merged with a reality show. And everyone survives, which makes it even scarier.

  Grandma meticulously pours out four cups of sugar.

  “So what exactly is Cowboy Cinnamon Bread besides a heart attack in loaf form?” I ask, watching her.

  “Cowboy Cinnamon Bread is like a cinnamon bun, but it’s bread. Toss in a few raisins and walnuts, and smother on a sugar glaze, and you’d think it’s sent by the cherubs,” Grandma says, licking the sugar off her finger. “Each lady in the office brings a treat one day of the week. I’m Tuesdays—used to be Thursdays, but then Dot retired and I switched to Tuesdays.”

  I can’t imagine how women can eat like this every day. My friends’ moms pride themselves on not eating. Waverly’s mom is a big-time magazine editor at a food magazine, and she still looks like a toothpick with a head. The entire staff draws straws when someone has to go to a tasting for a recipe because no one wants to go. Everyone’s that scared of getting fat. It’s because staying skinny is a sport in New York. Apparently in Broken Spoke, baking yourself fat is the sport of choice—after football, of course.

  “You don’t need to help if you don’t want to,” Grandma says. “I bet you have a lot of homework.” I don’t, but I figure Grandma must not want me around.

  Since I got here, Grandma has been on me to unpack. “Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt,” she keeps saying. In my room I finally decide to hang up my clothes. Not because I am staying in Texas, but because I don’t want my clothes to become permanently wrinkled. Back in New York, we had Maria, our housekeeper, to do this, but I might as well get used to it since there are no maids at Kent, so this will be good practice. Opening the so-called closet, I notice a box on the top shelf. It’s all taped up and labeled STUFF I DON’T NEED.

  I am a total snoop. I have been one ever since I found my Christmas gifts from Santa hidden in the oven. So the snoop in me thinks, Why not open the box?

  Carefully, I rip off the tape. Inside the box, there are three folders,
one red, one blue, and one yellow. They’re pretty faded, so I imagine they must’ve been in this box a long time. Each one has a label in beautiful script. FLOWERS. DRESSES. FOOD. What are these? I open the FLOWERS one to find dozens of perfectly cut clippings of wedding flowers from some ancient Bride magazines. I open the DRESSES folder and several wedding-dress patterns fall out. Finally, in the FOOD folder, there are a bunch of recipes from The Broken Spoke Daily News: Candace Jean’s Pineapple Kebabs, Sarah Ann’s Mushroom Turnovers, Adam’s Ribs. And there are also photocopied recipes from Betty Crocker’s Cookbook. In the margins, there are notes like “perfect for a bridesmaid lunch” and “perfect passing hors d’oeuvres.” Reaching into the bottom of the box, I pull out one more yellowed clipping. It’s a newspaper engagement announcement. It reads,

  Mr. and Mrs. Billy Bo Houston proudly announce the engagement of Broken Spoke darling and Rodeo Queen Jenny Jo Houston to New York City investment banker Cole Corcoran the II. The pair met when Jenny Jo moved to New York to pursue a career in modeling. The Houstons are hosting the September 15 wedding at their home. As we all know, Mrs. Houston is a domestic wonder, so the wedding should be newsworthy.

  But my parents got married in New York City. I know this because I’ve seen the albums, all six of them. There was even an ice sculpture of my parents! According to my mom, in the 1990s, ice sculptures were the crème de la crème. My parents’ wedding still gets referred to in bridal magazines as the one that changed marriage from a sacrament into a soiree. The late Evangeline Corcoran, my father’s very rich mother, had no daughters, so she spared no expense on the lavish Plaza wedding for her favorite son, Cole. So if I add 1 + 1 + 1, I know that Grandma Houston had wanted a Broken Spoke wedding and didn’t get it. This is what happened twenty years ago and this is what she and Grandpa had whispered about in the car from the airport. My mom chose a glamorous New York hotel wedding even though it seems her own mother had lovingly spent years clipping, plotting, and planning a hometown backyard wedding. Of course, I understand my mom’s decision—who makes her daughter’s wedding dress? That’s so 1800s. I am sure Grandma knows how to sew, but why compete with Vera Wang? And who serves wings at a wedding? That’s bar food. But still, I feel a bit bad for Grandma Houston, considering all her hard work. Even though my mother never tells this part of the story when recounting her wedding, this news is unfortunately just not blackmail worthy. I carefully put it away and tape the box back up.

  I am totally depressed that this isn’t the dirt I needed for a ticket to Kent. To cope, I find my iPod and earphones and listen to my most emo playlist. As I cram two suitcases’ worth of clothes into a closet that must’ve been designed for doll clothes, I wallow in my misery. Just as I am wondering if anyone—even these emo rockers—have ever hurt as bad as me, I spin around to find Grandpa opening the door.

  “Sorry, Corrinne, I didn’t mean to startle you. I knocked, but I don’t think you heard.” He points at my iPod. “You young people and your music. All tuned out of the world. The radio used to be something we shared…. Anyway, I want to hear more about your first day, and it’s time for supper. Hurry now, because I have a surprise,” Grandpa says, and winks obviously for about ten seconds. He looks like he has twitch.

  Glancing at my watch, I see it’s only ten minutes past five. I am not sure if this is an elderly thing or a Texas thing, but I can’t imagine eating right now. Sighing, I take off my iPod and join everyone at the table anyway.

  When we are all seated, Grandma says, “Let’s say a prayer for the first day of school.” She pauses and bows her head. “Thank you, God, for bringing us another school year and bringing us our grandchildren to share it with.”

  I mimic my grandma’s gesture and look down at my plate. My parents don’t do religion, and this dinner-table grace is the closest I’ve been to formally talking to God.

  “Before we dig into Grandma’s brisket and get all dirty, I have something to give Corrinne,” Grandpa says, and he plucks a folded-up piece of paper out of his pocket. “I got this at the DMV.”

  The pamphlet reads, “Parent-Taught Driver Education Program.” I am not sure what this means, so I look at Grandpa for an answer.

  “In Texas, we teach our kids, or grandkids in our case, to drive. And I taught your momma in Billie Jean the First and now I am going to teach you in Billie Jean the Second.”

  Hold on. I have no plans to get a license ever. Mostly because it’s illegal to drink and drive. My only future automobile plans involve taxis and drivers, not pickup trucks with rust stains and Grandpa.

  “Oh, Grandpa, thanks,” I say. “But in New York, you don’t need a license. We pay people to drive us.”

  “Corrinne,” Grandma starts, “this isn’t New York. You will get your license. We can’t be driving you all over the place. And besides, women worked hard for all their rights, including the privilege to drive.”

  “You’ll love it,” Grandpa says as he tussles my hair. “You’re just having first-time jitters.”

  Tripp’s eyes get really big. “And then, Corrinne, when you get your license, me and you can go to Sonic!”

  I smile at Tripp as I imagine shaking him, and I think the only place that I am heading if I get my license is due northeast. There will be no stops made at Sonic. Hey, maybe I should learn how to drive…. It might be my only escape route now that blackmail seems to be out of the picture. But I’ll need to ditch Billie Jean the Second before I make it to Manhattan. Cruising New York’s streets in a pickup truck would make for horrendous public relations. What if the paparazzi or my friends spotted me?

  “First lesson will be Saturday, Corrinne,” Grandpa says. “Eight a.m. sharp!”

  “And Corrinne, you need to call your mother,” Grandma says as she dishes out huge portions of something called brisket, which looks like a vegan’s worst nightmare.

  “Yes, Corrinne,” echoes Grandpa, “I think she’s lonely in the city with you kids in Texas and your dad in Dubai.”

  I try not to gasp. She’s lonely. She’s at home, surrounded by everything familiar—our apartment, the restaurants we go to, the shops we shop in, and the city that we love. And she’s lonely? Please.

  “Guess what, Corrinne?” Tripp says with a mouthful of brisket. “Mom says there might be a buyer for our New York apartment, and if there is, she’s coming to the Spoke soon.”

  A buyer? Mom coming to Texas? I take a big breath. It’s all really happening. This recession has destroyed my life. My sprawling apartment with its Hudson River views, my hunky doorman, and all my memories are being sold. And I am about to become roommates with my mother and not Waverly. There really will be no Kent, no Smith, no equestrian team, and no promising future. So much for my potential.

  A single tear suddenly rolls down my face and splatters onto my plate. I quickly wipe my eye and blink frantically to stop more tears from falling.

  Looking up, I see my grandpa staring at me with his kind brown eyes. Oh, that’s where I get brown eyes. Thanks a lot, Grandpa!

  “Cheer up, sunshine,” Grandpa says. “This Friday is the Mockingbirds’ first game.”

  I bite my lip hard enough to distract myself from tears and spear a blob of brown meat. What the hell is brisket, anyway?

  P.R., pre-recession, I could’ve shopped my way out of this funk like the time that Carlton Sanders told everyone I kissed badly. Not enough tongue, he said. How much tongue did he want? Kissing shouldn’t feel like a trip to the orthodontist. The shopping spree that followed lasted an entire weekend. I even went to Brooklyn to harvest their boutiques. And at the end of it, I did feel better, and my new wardrobe distracted everyone from Carlton’s insane comments. But now, with my credit cards frozen, I can’t even online-shop my way out of this.

  Well, there’s always greasy brisket, and like everything else from Grandma’s kitchen, it’s shockingly delicious. I hope I packed my sweats because I might need an elastic waistband soon.

  Chapter 5

  If That Mockingbird Doe
sn’t Win, Broken Spoke’s Going to Have a Breakdown

  SOMEHOW, I MAKE IT TO FRIDAY, the football season opener. The chocolate-chip, apple, granola, and blueberry pancakes, the casseroles, the pound cake, the rhubarb pie, and the snickerdoodles—they all greatly helped me survive. I am going to need to cut this eating orgy out. Between eating at Grandma Sandy’s Road-to-Diabetes kitchen and not having a gym or Sweetbread to ride, I am so not going to fit into my clothes by Thanksgiving. And it’s not exactly like I can go shopping for new clothes because a) it’s A.R., After the Recession, and b) where would I go?

  Oprah is definitely onto something with that emotional-eating concept. When Oprah asks, “What are you truly hungry for?” my answer is: “I am starving for New York, for Barneys, for Bleecker boutiques, for dinners at Il Posto with friends, for sneaking into clubs, for getting ready for Kent, for falling in love with Smith, and for living the life I am supposed to be living. I am so hungry, Oprah.” Perhaps I could get on her show as a guest: She could be my sponsor, right? I’ve seen her give away free cars. So why not restore people’s lives to their rightful place?

  And to make life worse, it’s a Friday without a social itinerary except for a Saturday driving date with Grandpa in the a.m.

  After Spanish class Kitsy approaches me.

  “Hola, Corrinne,” Kitsy says, and moves from one foot to the other, “¿Como estás? Wait, I am talking in español after class? That’s really lame. So anyways, what are you doing this weekend?”

  I shrug, even though I know the answer: driving Billie Jean the Second and eating leftover brisket.