Where I Belong Page 6

  “Are you going to the game?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  “To tell you a secret,” she says, lowering her voice, “I get sick of football too, but I’m a Mockingbirdette, so I’m required to go. I’m sure you guessed that with me wearing the uniform and all.”

  I don’t respond, but Kitsy keeps going.

  “Anyways, the good part of game night is there’s always a party afterward. If you want to go, find me.”

  For some inexplicable reason, I nod. Nodding, I believe even in Texas, is the universal sign for yes. I think the heat is going to my brain.

  “Great,” Kitsy says, and saunters away in her gray Mockingbirdette cheerleading uniform, holding her pom-poms in one hand and her books in the other. Broken Spoke Question of the Day: Why does Kitsy bring her pom-poms to class? Best guess: so she can cheer effectively if there was ever an emergency situation.

  Señor Luis must be forcing Kitsy to take me on as some charity project. Or maybe this is one of those teen movies where the kids lure the new student into some trap. Because on top of me and Kitsy having nothing in common, I gather that Kitsy’s actually popular at Hairspray and Cowboy Boot High. Unlike me, she’s not exactly lacking for friends, which makes her attention all the more confusing. Maybe she’s looking for a free place to stay if she ever gets to Manhattan. But if our apartment sells, it looks like even I will be staying at a hotel.

  Despite Grandma’s protests against the unfair allocations of time and money on the football team, she still dons a steel-gray Mockingbird sweatshirt and hops into Billie Jean the Second with Tripp, Grandpa, and me for the kickoff game.

  “Of course I am going, Corrinne,” Grandma says. “Season opener is like prom for the whole town. And everyone’s been on me to make my Mockingbird cupcakes since last season ended.”

  And with good reason. Grandma’s Mockingbird cupcakes beat out any of New York’s famous Magnolia Bakery cupcakes: Each is a perfectly moist red velvet cake with a tiny lifelike mockingbird shaped out of mascarpone perched on top. Grandma has baked enough for the whole town and probably the rival town’s team, the Bolston Bluebonnets, as well.

  When we arrive at the game two hours before it’s actually going to start, the entire parking lot’s filled with people. It looks like a gray sea. Everywhere people are wandering around the parking lot, and every car’s trunk is open and every pickup’s tailgate is down. There are enough portable grills and coolers to feed and quench the entire state of Texas, the second largest state in America, mind you.

  Tripp squeals, “Tailgating—just like on TV. Awesome. Dad promised to take me to a Jets game to tailgate even though he hates football, but, you know, work came up. This is way cooler than I thought.”

  Grandpa pulls into one of the last empty spots. Jumping out, Tripp hollers back to us, “Got to go find my friends. See you after the game.”

  Ah, so this is tailgating. The all-American ritual of hanging out in parking lots and eating unidentifiable grilled meats out of pickup trucks. In the city, we would never do this because we use cars to get from place to place, not as party furniture. The whole scene seems rather disgusting, and I hope that it forces me to lose my growing appetite.

  I am relieved to see that the young people dress up somewhat for the event. Getting ready, I worried that my outfit—a soft gray linen dress with a pink cardigan—might be too extreme. Because I lack pride or any feelings other than hatred toward Broken Spoke, I had no desire to wear gray. But ultimately I decided there’s no use in sticking out more than I already do, so I wore it anyway.

  I need to iPhone this tailgate scene to my father in Dubai. Seeing me here might change his attitude. He says football is for meatheads; real gentlemen golf and play polo, games of skill, not brute force. I don’t exactly agree, but I am willing to use anything to my advantage. Of course, the eight-hour time difference is making it a bit difficult to get ahold of him.

  Since Tripp galloped off with his friends, I am left with Grandma, Grandpa, and their group of friends, which appears to include the entire town.

  Grandma pulls me up to a large group of ladies wearing Mockingbird gear.

  “Here, have a cupcake,” Grandma says, and hands them out to the group. “I just know how y’all have been waiting for one. And this, this is my granddaughter, Corrinne. She’s enrolled at Broken Spoke this fall. And her little brother, Tripp, is at the middle school. He bounded off with his new best friends. You’ll recognize him; he’s the one who looks like he belongs in a cereal commercial.”

  The entire group’s eyes get big, almost in unison.

  “Jenny Jo’s daughter?” someone mutters in my direction.

  “Last time I saw her was in People magazine at some gala,” another one remarks.

  “She’s the one that got away,” laments another.

  “How is she?” one lady asks, and looks in my direction.

  I don’t know how to answer, so I just raise my shoulders and say, “You can ask her yourself; she’ll probably be here in a few weeks.”

  And then the group chuckles, and again it is almost synchronized. Creepy.

  “No way, Jenny Jo’s not coming back to Broken Spoke ever,” replies a heavyset lady wearing a red sweatshirt with a gray sequin mockingbird patched on.

  I want to tell this woman that this is the fall of surprises. And if Corrinne is here in the Spoke, Jenny Jo better show up too.

  At this point, Grandpa approaches the group, puts his arms around my shoulders, and saves me.

  “How about we go taste some of Broken Spoke’s finest BBQ?” he says, steering me away from the Gossiping Grannies.

  And as we leave the group, I can hear my grandma yakking about recession this, recession that, and yes, twenty years is a long time.

  With Grandpa and his buddies, I get to relive Broken Spoke’s last State Championship season, game by game, play by play. Although it occurred fifty-two years ago, these men talk in the present tense as if it were days ago rather than a half century.

  Grandma, Grandpa, and I eventually settle into front-row seats in the senior citizen section and the kickoff occurs. I sigh. Finally. An eerie, deadly silence takes over the Broken Spoke crowd until they score the first touchdown. I swear to you no one even breathes until the Mockingbirds are up by seven. Soon after, that kid Bubby from my Spanish class intercepts the ball and scores the second touchdown. Our section erupts into deafening applause; I’ve heard sirens that are more pleasing to the ears.

  Grandpa points to number twenty, Bubby.

  “You meet that boy yet, Corrinne?” Grandpa asks when the thunder of applause dies out. “They say he’s going to make it big-time. Division one, Longhorn scholarship, maybe even the NFL one day. We haven’t ever had a Spoker make it to the NFL. All talk right now, of course, but I think he’s got it. Real good kid, too. Academic as well, so your grandmomma says. Way back when, your momma knew his father.”

  I don’t tell Grandpa that he’s the Neanderthal that calls me Manhattan, one of only two people at the whole school who talk to me. The game, despite the fact that I am the only teenager seated in the geriatric section, passes by quickly enough. For a few seconds, when the Spoke temporarily falls behind the Bluebonnets, I find myself clenching my fist, holding my breath, and praying that Broken Spoke wins. When I realize that I might actually care about the outcome of this barbaric game, confusion overcomes me. Newfound school spirit? Hardly. I chalk it up to the fact that this town’s depressing enough; I am not sure what a loss would do to it.

  After the game, I see Kitsy skipping, yes skipping, toward the grandparents and me as she pumps one white pom-pom up and down. I wonder what kind of uppers she is on and if she can get me some.

  “Can you believe it, Corrinne? Big win. Huge win. And did you see those lame Bonnets totally mess up their cheer? Amateurs. You ready to go? Oh, excuse my manners. I’ve seen y’all around town, but we’ve never actually met. I am Kitsy Kidd, and it’s very nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Corco
ran.”

  “Houston,” Grandma quickly corrects. “Mr. and Mrs. Houston.”

  “Hello, Miss Kitsy,” Grandpa says. “Any chance you are related to Amber Kidd?”

  Kitsy pauses. “She’s my mom,” Kitsy says quietly, and bends down to tie her shoe.

  Grandma nudges Grandpa in an obvious way, and I feel myself blush even though I don’t care what Kitsy thinks of me or my grandparents’ manners.

  Kitsy stands up tall and takes a deep breath. “I promise that I am very responsible. My boyfriend, Hands, the quarterback, is an excellent driver. Corrinne will get home at a reasonable hour, and I’ll see to it. I can’t believe Corrinne’s from New York City. I have never met a New Yorker before and want to hear what it’s really like versus how it is in the movies. Someday I am going to move there. Or I hope so.”

  Grandpa steps forward, shakes Kitsy’s hand, and says, “I didn’t realize that Corrinne had made such a nice friend.”

  “And I didn’t know that you were going anywhere, Corrinne. We haven’t even discussed a curfew yet,” Grandma says as her eyes trace Kitsy’s frame.

  Curfew? I wouldn’t even know how to convert New York time to Texas time. After all, they eat dinner at five p.m. here. Does that mean I need to be home by nine thirty p.m.?

  “I’ll get her home by twelve, ma’am,” Kitsy says. I want to laugh. Midnight? Really? That was my middle school curfew.

  “All right, Corrinne. I have your cell number, so go off with your friend. Try to have some fun,” Grandpa says, and Grandma turns to him, opens her mouth, but then closes it.

  “No drinking, Corrinne,” Grandma yells.

  I say nothing. Actually, I have said nothing during this exchange, and now Kitsy’s dragging me by the hand toward a very tall football player with reddish hair and his perfectly waxed banana yellow two-door pickup truck. I wonder what his truck is named. Yellow Submarine?

  “I’m Hands, Kitsy’s boyfriend,” he says. “You must be Corrinne. Kitsy keeps yapping about you. ‘Hands, there’s a new girl from New York City. Hands, she’s like a real-life Gossip Girl. Hands, I want to be her friend.’ Kitsy’s seriously obsessed with all things New York, including you.”

  And then he extends his hand, still sweaty from the game, and I suddenly understand the name: His right hand alone is the size of a large pizza pie.

  Hands opens the door for me, which is something Grandpa always does too.

  “Let’s get wasted,” Kitsy says, and jumps in after me. “You drink, right?”

  Wow, I thought Kitsy was a front-row do-gooder. At least it turns out the one person who likes me in Texas takes me to parties rather than study groups.

  Driving down dirt road after dirt road, I can barely believe that this is still Broken Spoke. And my bladder keeps jiggling. There’d better be a bathroom when we get there. Or maybe a magical Starbucks will pop up out of nowhere; they always have bathrooms.

  Finally, Hands turns on his high beams as he pulls into a field where a bonfire is raging and about half a dozen trucks are already parked. Not another tailgate. And there’s not even a Porta-Potty in sight.

  “Is this like the pre-party before the house party?” I ask Kitsy. “I really have to go to the bathroom,” I whisper.

  Kitsy moves her index finger in a circle. “This is the party,” she says.

  I try not to let my mouth gape open.

  “Not to worry, I always carry TP in my purse,” Kitsy says.

  “TP?” I ask as Kitsy starts digging around in her bag.

  “Toilet paper,” she says as she hands me a wad. “I’ll take you to the woods.”

  Woods? I am not about to pee on my satin heels; they cost four hundred dollars, and I don’t know when I can get another pair. They sold out within hours of going on sale.

  “Don’t worry, Corrinne,” she says, catching me staring at my shoes. “I’ll show you the cowgirl method.”

  I look down at my iPhone: no service. I can’t call Waverly, I can’t call Dubai, I can’t call Grandma and Grandpa, and I can’t even call 911. So I guess I will have to pee in the woods, cowgirl style. My parents will have to pay for my hypnosis; I can’t live life with these memories.

  Kitsy takes her pom-poms in one hand, grabs my wrist with the other, and drags me toward the woods. I find out that the cowboy method means throwing one leg on a fallen tree branch and squatting like a ballerina. Hopefully, no one can see the other full moon—mine—in the night sky. But no pee winds up on my heels or my leg, so I guess the method works. This would so get you arrested in the city though!

  “Beer time,” Kitsy says when we reemerge from the woods.

  Beer? Does Kitsy have any idea how many carbs are in that? I can’t handle any more carb overloads after everything I’ve been eating at Grandma’s. But with only kegs in sight, I follow her. Bubby is filling up red plastic cups.

  “Manhattan,” Bubby says. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. I thought you’d have some private jet waiting to whisk you to the Hamptons for a white party.”

  “I summer in Nantucket,” I correct him. “Anyway, it’s now totally acceptable to wear white after Labor Day, so white parties are kind of over.”

  “What’s a Nantucket?” Kitsy wants to know.

  Bubby hands me a cup with no foam. Apparently, he’s done this keg thing before.

  “Nantucket’s an island for rich people, Kitsy. So Manhattan, what’s a girl like you doing in Texas? Is this like rehab for you?” Bubby says.

  I gulp down the beer. It tasks like urine, which is just perfect since I probably smell like urine after the woods. “Yup, rehab.” Holding my cup in the air, I tip it toward him. “Cheers.”

  Kitsy winks at me. “Corrinne’s just spending some time with her grandparents, but you seem awfully interested. You wouldn’t be sweet on the new girl, would you?”

  Sweet on? Is that like Texan for having a crush? I wouldn’t even accept Bubby’s virtual friendship much less let him be sweet on me. Not that there’s anything sweet about me.

  “Kitsy, Manhattan’s a bit uptight for me. I prefer a cowgirl,” Bubby says, and pours me out another beer.

  I decide not to tell Bubby that I’ve already learned the cowgirl method about five minutes ago. Taking the cup from Bubby cautiously, I remind myself to take it slow, or I’ll have to go to the woods again.

  “And I prefer gentlemen,” I say, which is a lie since I’ve never met a gentleman in my life. My past love interests thought offering pills to go with my cocktail counted as a grand romantic gesture. Smith was supposed to be my first gentleman, but this fall is turning out to be the season of supposed-to-bes. I was supposed to have a life of potential, supposed to go to Kent, supposed to room with Waverly. I was supposed to make out with Smith.

  “So why don’t you guys have house parties?” I ask, turning my head both ways to look at this so-called party, which more accurately resembles a grassy parking lot.

  “We guys don’t have houses big enough for house parties. Even if we did, our parents are home. There isn’t much to do in Broken Spoke after nine p.m. It’s a dry county, you know. So most of the parents that aren’t beating the Bible in their living rooms are drinking alone in their living rooms. Not exactly the kind of parties we’d want to crash. Besides, the field’s cool. Teams have partied here for years,” Bubby says, and I look around to realize that I am the only one not in a Mockingbirdette uniform or Mockingbird football jersey.

  Broken Spoke and the city couldn’t be more different. Here, the parents’ social lives revolve around the kids and their sports. Everyone in the town was at that game tonight. There were generations upon generations rooting for the kids. In Manhattan, parents can barely make their kids’ extracurriculars fit into their overscheduled work and social schedules. And on the weekends, most parents often stay out as late, if not later, than their children. But I guess it makes sense that Broken Spoke is different. No wonder Bravo’s not rushing to film The Real Housewives of Broken Spoke.

  �
�I am going to leave you lovebirds at the watering fountain.” Kitsy says. “I’ve got to find Hands.”

  And Kitsy, with her pom-poms, scampers off toward Hands, who’s still throwing around the football with a couple of jocks by the fire.

  I want to run away, but heels aren’t good for that—even if they are Nike Air Cole Haans—and I have no idea where I am. This field with only kegs, trucks, and a few pine shrubs makes Broken Spoke look like a metropolis.

  Bubby pulls down the tailgate of a truck and sits on the edge.

  “Take a seat,” he says.

  I hand him my cup and try to gracefully push myself up, but my arm muscles fail me. Bubby reaches down, clasps my hand, and pulls me up easily.

  “So, Texas isn’t some sort of Manhattan princess rehab thing. Why are you really here, then?” Bubby asks, and turns his head to make eye contact. “Not exactly a place where many people decide to relocate.”

  That’s for sure, especially not by free will, I think.

  “My grandparents live here. My grandpa said that your dad actually knew my mom. She grew up here. J.J. Corcoran? I mean, Jenny Jo Houston?” I say.

  “No way. Your mom is Jenny Jo Houston?” Bubby bends forward and lets out a belly laugh. “I can’t wait to tell the old man. I’ve been hearing stories about Jenny Jo since I first started throwing the pigskin with my dad. You ever see their prom pictures?”

  “Whose prom pictures?” I ask.

  “Your mom never told you?” Bubby asks back.

  “Told me what?” I reply. This kid is beginning to weird me out.

  “Your mom. My dad. They dated, like, all of high school, and then some,” Bubby says, and drains the rest of his beer.

  The thought of my mom dating anyone, let alone this hick’s dad, makes me almost spew my beer. I swallow hard to keep it down.

  “Um, my mom doesn’t talk much about Texas. I never visited Broken Spoke before, like, ten days ago,” I respond. “And it wasn’t exactly something I planned on ever doing.”

  “Yeah, I know that part of the story too. Some banker guy swept your mom off her feet when she was modeling in New York. The story goes that she always thought she was too good for this town. Or at least that’s what my dad says, but he could just be bitter.”