Where I Belong Read online

  “Shoveling manure? Don’t they have stable hands that do that?” I spit.

  Grandma spins around. “That’s the job I got you. You are the newest hand. Hope you brought some clothes that you can get dirty in.”

  Without another word, I hightail it to my room. I slam the door extra hard to make sure even my grandparents, with their declining hearing, can feel the vibrations of my anger. Shoveling manure? Sick. While I am not afraid of getting manure on my boots now and again, I—okay, my parents—pay people to shovel Sweetbread’s manure. I don’t shovel other people’s horses’ poop for a few dollars. This is not happening. Isn’t there, like, a hoof and foot disease I could catch?

  I lie back on my bed. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t get back to B.R. even in my daydreams.

  Chapter 7

  This Is My First Rodeo

  I SPEND SUNDAY IN BED. Grandpa brings me in trays of food and laughs at his own room-service jokes.

  “Room service here,” Grandpa says. “Is this like the Plaza, Corrinne?” he asks.

  No, I think. Grandma’s food’s way better. But I don’t say it. Even after a day, I am still fuming at Grandma about this job thing. First I am driving. Now I am working. Does she also have me in an arranged marriage that I don’t know about? Am I adopting a child from a foreign nation? She’s got my life on total fast-forward, and I don’t like it. I didn’t plan to work until after college except for some internship where I could somehow still manage a good summer tan.

  After dinner, Grandpa returns to my room to collect my tray.

  “You know that your momma used this same tray when she stayed home from school with a cold. She said she could only eat pancakes; that was the only thing that’d make her feel better. I think that might have been a white lie though, just so she could eat pancakes for dinner.”

  Uncurling myself from the fetal position, I sit up. “I am not sick, Grandpa,” I say. “I am grounded.”

  “There’re a lot of ways to be sick,” Grandpa says as he sits on the corner of my bed. “Homesick is real sickness, sweetie. It’s okay to be sad, but moping doesn’t do anything except make it worse. And you aren’t grounded if you go to your job tomorrow.”

  “There’s no way I am working there,” I say.

  What would I even wear if I were insane enough to do it? I mean, my dressage clothes would be totally ridiculous. It would be like going to a dive bar in a ball gown. You don’t shovel poop in beige jodhpurs, a blue jockey skullcap, and a hacking jacket. And I never got into that whole grunge trend, so I don’t have any boyfriend jeans or flannel shirts.

  “How about we make a deal?” Grandpa says, reaching out his hand for a shake. “This house is small, and we need peace. You go tomorrow and see if it’s truly unbearable. And if you find it’s not and you keep at it, I’ll let you have Billie Jean the Second when I get a new truck. Hard to resist, huh?”

  I think this offer over: If I am willing to shovel manure in extreme heat, I can become the lucky winner of a junky jalopy. Even in a recession this sounds like a bum deal.

  “I’ll think about it, Grandpa,” I say because I am too exhausted to argue, but I don’t shake his hand.

  “That’s all I ask, Corrinne,” Grandpa says as he gets up from the bed. “Grandma thinks idleness is the door to all the other vices. And I tend to agree. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be locked up in her room watching TV on a computer,” Grandpa says. Opening the door, Grandpa mutters to himself, “Never thought I’d live to see the day that there was TV on a computer.”

  After he shuts the door, I put my earphones back on to continue watching Gossip Girl. It’s the closest I can get to my old life right now.

  Just when I am so immersed in the world of Chuck, Serena, and Blair that I forget about Texas and my impending employment, Tripp flings open my door without knocking.

  “I know that you are a mutant and don’t know social norms,” I say loudly without even taking my earphones off, “but on planet Earth, we knock, even here in Twilight Texas.”

  Tripp leaves and shuts the door behind him, and I sigh.

  A second later, I hear a loud knock.

  I do a calming countdown from three to two to one.

  The knocking persists.

  “Come in,” I finally grunt.

  Tripp then leaps onto my bed without an invitation. I decide to just let that one go.

  Yanking out my earphones and pausing Gossip Girl midscene, I roll my eyes at Tripp. “What business do you have in my room?”

  “Grandpa says you are homesick,” Tripp says. “And you know what? I am too. Well, just a little. I am really bored without chess club. Do you want to do something together? Grandpa and I are watching the Yankees later.”

  “I am not homesick,” I lie. “It’s not home that I care about. Or Mom or Dad. I miss my life. That’s different. And you didn’t have a life, so you have nothing to miss besides chess, which is lame anyways.”

  “Corrinne,” Tripp whines, “you never hang out with me. I thought Texas would be different, especially since it’s not like you have friends here.”

  “Out,” I say, and shove Tripp off the bed. He lands with a thud, dusts himself off, and retreats.

  Tripp’s right, I don’t have friends, but hanging out with my annoying little brother won’t make my life any less pathetic.

  Monday at school reminds me why Monday is the most psychologically damaging day of the week. People should just stay home to protect their mental well-being, and the government should enforce the rule.

  Bubby totally harasses me in Spanish class.

  “Manhattan,” he whispers, “you were gone in a New York minute from the party last Friday. Hope it wasn’t anything I said.”

  I whisper back, “No, it’s who you are.”

  Bubby hoots at this. Apparently he doesn’t even get how to take an insult.

  After Spanish class, Kitsy grabs my hand and says, “Please forgive me about the party. Sorry you didn’t have fun. I feel terrible. Did some girl say something? Girls here are super jealous, especially over football players, and everyone knows that Bubby’s got it bad for you. Can I make it up to you? Let’s go shopping for Saturday’s dance together. Please? I want your opinion on my dress.”

  Like always, Kitsy’s monologue has left me totally confused. Bubby, who verbally assaulted me, has a crush? A dance? Shopping in Broken Spoke?

  “I don’t know, Kitsy, because I am not totally sure how much longer I’ll be here,” I reply, and Kitsy’s permanent smile disappears. “Could be just a few more days,” I elaborate, feeding my own lie.

  Kitsy totally deserves an A for effort, but I am not in the business of giving out congeniality awards. So I walk away without even thanking Kitsy for asking me to go shopping.

  After school, I had prepared to continue my grounding and watch more Gossip Girl episodes. While Grandma and I wait for Grandpa to pick us up, I don’t say a word. Total silent treatment. Grandpa smiles really big when we get into the truck.

  “Surprise, Corrinne. I got you something!” And he pulls out a big shopping bag with a shoe box inside.

  “Open it,” he says. Grandma just rolls her eyes at him. And out of the box I pull a pair of totally faded, worn, caramel brown cowboy boots. They look like they’re a total gem from a vintage store in the East Village.

  “They were your momma’s. She left them here when she went to the city,” Grandpa says. “I guess she thought she’d be back for them.”

  And I have to admit that they’re wicked hot. Posh might even lend me Beckham in exchange for these.

  “They’ll be great for your first day of work,” Grandma says, and reaches for another bag. “I did you the courtesy of packing some more—uh—appropriate clothing. They used to be your mom’s too.”

  I guess my grandma didn’t think a yellow sundress would be appropriate for manure duty, but I hadn’t actually planned on shoveling manure.

  Peering into the bag, I see there’s a totally chic
pair of ripped Levi’s, dark but faded, and a gray T-shirt with BROKEN SPOKE HIGH SCHOOL in navy letters.

  “So let’s get Tripp and then we’ll drop you off. Before you know it, you’ll be able to drive yourself,” Grandpa says, and turns to wink.

  I have two options: a) watching TV in a barely air-conditioned room or b) shoveling poop. I am for sure going to choose a) until I realize that b) might just make me enough money to get a ticket out of this town. At this point, I am willing to take the Greyhound bus if it means escape.

  “Okay,” I say, “I’ll try it. But just today.”

  And I swear, Grandma almost cracks a smile.

  GINGER’S STABLES, TURNING GIRLS INTO RODEO QUEENS SINCE 1975, the sign reads. TOURISTS WELCOME. TRAIL RIDES DAILY. The facility is astonishingly dilapidated, complete with a chipped red barn and white fences mended with duct tape. They are nothing like the Martha Stewart–inspired stables where I ride back home. And tourists in Broken Spoke? That is laughable. The only tourists who would make it here would be very lost tourists. But the horses, mostly quarter horses and paints, look beautiful in the pasture. After noticing my prickly goose-bumped arms, the effect I get from being around horses, I desperately miss Sweetbread, which reminds me that I need to email my barn to make sure she’s getting her exercise.

  “What’s a rodeo queen?” Tripp asks.

  “Your mother was a rodeo queen, Tripp. It’s a pageant for beautiful, smart girls. A little like Miss USA, but with a four-legged friend,” Grandpa says.

  “Not exactly.” Grandma laughs, and she looks pretty when she laughs—it’s those same Indian Ocean blue eyes as my mom’s.

  “Are there rodeo kings?” Tripp wants to know. And both Grandma and Grandpa chuckle.

  “No, Tripp,” Grandpa says, regaining his composure. “Although there was one young fella last year who petitioned that there should be rodeo kings or boy queens or whatever it was. Gee, that got people talking around town.”

  Grandma interrupts Grandpa. “Corrinne, you change in the car, and we’ll take Tripp to meet Ginger.”

  After a few minutes of wiggling into my clothes, I am dressed, and Mom’s cowgirl clothes fit perfectly. She must have been bigger in high school because I definitely can’t wear her clothes now. For going casual, I think I look pretty damn good. Mental reminder: Wear this outfit when I get back to the city. It’ll be totally uncopyable.

  Even from a distance, I can tell that Ginger is appropriately named. A woman of about Grandma’s age, she has fiery red hair and is wearing a pink cowgirl shirt and red boots. Apparently she didn’t get the memo that redheads aren’t so pretty in pink. (Unless of course, it’s retro, like Molly Ringwald.)

  “You look just like her!” Ginger exclaims.

  “Who?” I say, walking up closer to Ginger, Grandpa, Grandma, and Tripp.

  “Your momma. I mean, your hair’s different, your eyes are different, but oh, you got that same glamour,” Ginger effuses.

  Me? Look like my mother? That’s new. And I’m glamorous? While this part may be true, I can’t say that many people have articulated it before. I might just like this Ginger lady.

  “We’re so happy to have you working here,” Ginger drawls. “Your grandmomma told me that you’re quite the horsewoman. We’re lucky to have you.”

  “Actually,” I correct her, “I ride dressage; it’s a bit different from rodeo. I don’t do any other kind of riding. And I don’t ride any horses but my own, Sweetbread. We’re in a monogamous relationship. No offense to any of your horses or anything.”

  “I know dressage—it’s like Dancing with the Stars but for horses. Here we’re more horse circus.” Ginger giggles at her own joke. “We do a bit of everything: barrel racing, steer roping, bareback bronco riding. Pretty wild stuff. Your momma was the best barrel racer we’ve ever had.”

  “Barrel racing?” I repeat. She has to be joking. To me, riding’s an art; here it’s a carnival.

  “Barrel racing is like a slalom skiing course. I imagine you ski?” Ginger guesses correctly. I’ve skied since I could walk. “You ride as quick as you can as you navigate a series of barrels. It takes a really good relationship with your horse, just like your dressage.”

  The words your horse sting. My horse is alone in Connecticut. We’ve been forced into a long-distance relationship by my tyrant parents. And now I am here to shovel manure and watch people rope cows. Ugh. Feeling like I am suffocating, I debate making a run for the car. At that moment, Grandma, Grandpa, and Tripp back away from our circle and wave.

  “Good luck, we’ll pick you up at six,” Grandpa calls out quickly, approaching the car with rapid speed.

  There goes my escape plan. I am stuck here.

  “Did your grandmomma mention the pay?” Ginger asks.

  “Nope,” I say. “She’s more of a director than an explainer.” I want to say dictator, but I know Grandma and Ginger are friends.

  “Seven fifty an hour,” Ginger says. “And if you like, I’ll exchange your pay for lessons.”

  “Seven dollars and fifty cents?” I repeat. That’s two slices at Bleecker Street Pizza. That’s less than what a Serendipity sundae costs.

  “That’s more than most people in this town—including adults—make, Corrinne. Those lucky enough to have jobs, that is,” Ginger says, and topples a pile of dirt with her boot. “And you’ll find it will get you a lot more in Broken Spoke than in New York, especially when you buy only what you need.”

  Deciding there’s no use arguing with Ginger, I shrug and say, “Tell me where to start.”

  “Let me introduce you to your coworker,” Ginger says, and she whistles like a construction worker. “Rider!”

  Out of the barn walks the hottest guy that I have ever seen. And I used to live in the breeding ground for models and actresses. Pulling a white T-shirt over a tanned washboard stomach, a boy with moppy brown hair jogs up. I swear the ’70s song “Blinded by the Light” starts playing in the background. The only breeze in Texas, which I’ve yet to experience, tousles his hair.

  “Rider,” he says, holding out his hand.

  “Corrinne,” I stammer.

  “So you’re our city girl. You look just like your mom. Ginger told me Jenny Jo’s daughter was coming to work here. Her pictures are all over the Rodeo Queen Hall of Fame. I haven’t seen you at Broken Spoke High this year yet. Ginger told me you’re going there,” he says with a grin.

  “I’m new and I sort of keep to myself,” I say, blushing. “I haven’t seen you there either.”

  “Usually you can find me in the music room, practicing with my band. I’ve been working at Ginger’s to pay the fee to enter the Battle of the Bands in Dallas. And it keeps me in shape.”

  Indeed it does, I think.

  “Y’all two get into those stables and start cleaning. The girls will be arriving for lessons soon,” Ginger says as she shoos us with her hand.

  Of course, this isn’t how I imagined meeting my soul mate. I definitely didn’t think I’d be wearing denim and cowboy boots. In my fantasies, I was at a posh hotel lobby bar, wearing an LBD (Little Black Dress) and holding champagne. But isn’t this how it happens in the movies? Love finds you in unexpected places. Rider could be the cosmic reason behind this whole move to Broken Spoke. That’s it; Rider has to be my destiny. And he’s in a band, so it’s a modern-day fairy tale. I might just be able to endure this job long enough to get Rider to choose me for his muse. He’ll write love songs about me, and then we’ll be rock royalty. The recession will just be the entry point for our love story rather than my demise.

  As we walk into the stable, Rider grabs a shovel and tosses it to me. Amazingly, I catch it.

  “You do that one,” he says, pointing to a stall heaping with fresh manure, “and I’ll do this one.”

  So much for my plan to work side by side and gaze into each other’s eyes.

  Rider tunes the radio to a hard rock station and turns it up so loud that I can’t even make conversation. At first, I jus
t look at the piles of manure, wishing I had a magic wand to make them disappear. The piles don’t get any smaller despite the curses and spells I put on them. I attempt to shovel up the largest pile while holding my breath. With my hands shaking at the weight, I manage to raise the shovel to the height of the wheelbarrow before I drop it all right back where it was. This happens about four more times before I finally manage to get it in the wheelbarrow. Obviously, I wasn’t born for this type of work. Before long, my arms and back are aching.

  “How about a break?” I yell, peeking my head into Rider’s stall.

  “No,” he yells back. “Gotta get out of here as fast as possible so I can practice with my band.”

  “What’s your band called?” I shout back. This Rider might be a bit more difficult to rope in than I previously thought.

  “Friday Night After the Lights,” he responds, and stops shoveling for a second. “Pretty genius, huh?”

  “Totally,” I answer. “When’s your next gig?” I am feeling pretty smart for remembering the music lingo. My friend Jason’s father is a total music mogul, and he signed two of the biggest boy bands. Unfortunately for me, all the guys were gay, so I couldn’t use that angle for fame. Maybe Rider’s into guys? He certainly doesn’t seem that interested in me.

  “We’re playing at the school dance this Saturday,” he says, “Lame, but we’ll take anything we can get and student council is paying us fifty bucks.”

  Oh yeah, the dance. Mental reminder: I need to accept Kitsy’s offer to go shopping ASAP and ask her if I can tag along to the dance. This will help set the new plan—the one to establish myself as Rider’s number one groupie—into action. Band guys love groupies, right?

  “Awesome,” I say. “I am really looking forward to it.”

  “Really?” Rider says as he moves into my stall to help finish it. I follow him. “I thought you stuck to yourself.”