Where I Belong (17 page)

“It’s okay, Grandpa,” Tripp says. “I am used to Corrinne never wanting to do anything with me. Luckily she’s not
that
sweet, so I really don’t care. Tractors will be cool instead.”

Great, I am finally enjoying something—okay, some
one
—in Broken Spoke and Tripp’s giving me big-sister guilt. But I am not giving in to it.

“I’ll drop you ladies off first,” Grandpa says.

I realize quickly that I need to stop this. My mother is not invited to my romantic afternoon with Rider.

“Mom,” I say, carefully syruping my pancakes, “why don’t you stay with Grandma and get adjusted? Maybe you can go with her to church. I don’t think that’s a place you’ve visited in a while. I really need to concentrate on my work.”

My mom totally lifts her eyebrows at that last comment and Grandma, Grandpa, and Tripp laugh. But what do I care? I am in love and about a millimeter away from becoming famous.

Rider’s not at the stables when I get there. I am Bummed-out Betty.

“You aren’t on the schedule today,” Ginger says, coming out of the barn.

“U-um,” I stammer, watching Grandpa and Tripp pull out of the parking lot, “I just came to help out.”

Ginger’s eyes get really big.

“Wow,” Ginger says, not hiding her surprise. “That’s kind. No offense, but I originally didn’t take you as the volunteer type.” She points to the horse in the pasture, a beautiful chestnut with a white patch on his face.

“I know that rodeo ain’t your thing, Corrinne. But how about you take Smudge for a ride? He needs some exercise.”

Although I made my pact to remain faithful to Sweetbread, I agree anyway. Riding a horse, even if it’s Western style, has to be better than shoveling manure for free. Plus, I am doing it for work, not pleasure, so Sweetbread would understand.

“Where’s the saddle?” I ask. “I’ll go get it.”

“Ain’t one,” Ginger says, and shakes her head.

“Wait, bareback?” I ask, and my mouth gapes open. This idea totally freaks me out since I’ve never done it. Hell, I’ve never even ridden a horse in jeans! This is a long way from my stable in Connecticut.

“When in Texas,” Ginger starts, “do as the Texans do.”

There’s only one Texan thing—okay, Texan—I’m
interested in, but I filter myself and duck under the fence to the pasture. Surprisingly I manage to climb over the top rung of the fence and get myself onto Smudge’s back.

Ginger whistles. “Maybe there’s a cowgirl in you yet.” Once on Smudge, I totally feel like I am cheating on Sweetbread. And though I don’t want to admit it, being in the saddle again feels fantastic even if there isn’t actually a saddle.

Ginger opens the gate, and I trot Smudge into the ring.

“Just ride him around a few times, try to get his heart rate up. I am going to check on some stuff inside.” Ginger slips into her office in the barn.

“You should try the barrels, Levi’s,” a familiar voice says. I look back. Holy Holly Golightly, it’s Rider. Sitting up straight and brushing the wisps out of my face, I give a tiny wave. Like Waverly says, present yourself like everyone’s about to take your picture, chin up, suck in, and smile.

Now, I had seen the barrels done a couple of times when I was at the barn last week. To me, it looked like a deathtrap. The horse gallops at a breakneck pace and makes a quick turn around the barrel. There’s no beauty to it, just a lot of dust and danger. No way I’d do it unless the boy of my dreams asked me to, which he just did. And really, how hard can it be? I’ve ridden for years. I’m capable of making a horse dance.

“Hi, Rider,” I call. “If you say so…”

I give Smudge a big old nudge. And with that kick, Smudge takes off like the 5 Express train.

“Eek!” I scream as I shoot backward.

I end up soaring in the air and landing with a hard thud. My face goes red. My first thought is, Where’s Rider? And is there any way he might have missed seeing that catastrophe? I spot Rider, just standing at the corner of the ring and watching me. Flying straight out of the barn, Ginger runs toward me.

“Corrinne, you okay? I heard a lot of commotion. Did something spook Smudge?” Ginger asks, out of breath.

Ginger ducks into the ring and grabs onto Smudge.

I try to push myself back up. “Holy shit!” I scream. It feels like an elephant just sat on my wrist.

“What’s wrong, Corrinne?” Ginger says.

“My wrist!” I wail.

“Rider!” Ginger beckons. “Come get Smudge so I can look at Corrinne.”

Unable to get out of what I now recognize—and smell—as manure, I sit and swear softly. Talk about cursed: Just when I think my life is getting better, all of a sudden I am sitting in shit in front of the one boy who makes Broken Spoke feel more destined than doomed. And I am also pretty sure I’ve broken my wrist.

“Let me see,” Ginger says after passing Smudge on
to Rider, who has yet to begin behaving like my knight in shining armor.

“Yup,” Ginger says, looking at my contorted wrist. “You did a number. C’mon, I’ll drive you to the hospital. I am an old hat at this.”

Now I decide to just let my tears fall. How can a man resist his woman’s tears? Gazing at Rider through blurry eyes. I wait for him to scoop me up, carry me to his truck, and heal me with kisses. But Rider still just stands there, holding on to Smudge and staring.

“Feel better, Corrinne,” Rider calls as Ginger gently stands me up. “Facebook me later. Sorry—I am just more musical than medicinal. That stuff freaks me out.” As I put pressure onto my legs, everything goes black….

After I came to at the stable, Ginger forced me to go to the ER. I must have passed out again because now I am in a hospital bed. My mom, my grandparents, and Ginger are all standing around and staring at me. When they see me open my eyes, they get really hush-hush. A doctor steps through the crowd.

“Hello, Corrinne,” he says. “I am Dr. Sullivan. You had us scared. What’s the last thing you remember? We need to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

I want to think this whole thing’s been a dream, that I am still in New York, that the recession didn’t happen,
that I don’t smell like shit, that I didn’t break my wrist, that my last solid memory wasn’t Rider rejecting a total potential hero moment. However, I can see my arm is in a sling, my wrist is throbbing, and I am still wearing my cowboy boots, so I figure that this is real. And of course, my doctor isn’t even hot like on TV. If he were on TV, he’d be called McNotSteamyorDreamy.

“I don’t have a concussion, just a serious case of are-you-kidding-me-is-this-my-real-life-itis,” I say.

“The pain from your wrist caused you to pass out for a few seconds,” Dr. Sullivan says, making notes on his chart. “We’ll keep you for a couple of hours for observation in case you do have a concussion, but you should be just fine. And your wrist is only sprained, so it could be worse.”

Worse? Really? How? My phone, I think. Where is it? Maybe Rider texted that he’s bringing flowers. Maybe we’ll still be rock royalty.

“Where’s my phone?” I ask, searching the room for it with my eyes.

“Kids and their technology.” Ginger laughs, rifling through her jeans back pocket to retrieve my iPhone.

With my one good hand, I scan through my text messages. Three messages. All from Waverly.

Waverly: Vladlena’s a Russian goddess. She’s been in Russian
Vogue
3 times.

She definitely showers daily.

Waverly: Call me. I want to hear how my cowgirl’s doing.

Waverly. OHMIGOD. Smith fb’d me to ask if I need a private tour of the school. OHMIGOD. What should I wear? Underwear or no underwear?

OHMIGOD. I might as well stay checked into the hospital indefinitely. My life stinks.

“What can I get you, Corrinne?” my mom asks just as my phone rings.

I am ready to silence it because I assume it’s Waverly with another message about how awesome her life is with her new BFF Vladlena and hottie-tottie Smith. But then I see it’s Kitsy, so I answer in an attempt to ignore my mother.

“Corrinne,” Kitsy screeches. “Are you okay? Rumor is you fell off a horse. I am headed to the hospital with a Sonic Blast. I’ll be there in ten. Don’t die on me.”

Before I can say anything, Kitsy has hung up.

“Kitsy,” I say to Grandma and Grandpa.

Grandpa laughs. “Kitsy talks even faster than a New Yorker. You remember Amber, Jenny Jo? She was a few years younger than you. That’s Kitsy’s mom.”

My mom whips her head toward Grandpa and asks, “Amber from high school? The Mockingbirdette Amber? She’s still in Broken Spoke?”

“Not everyone ran away and married money,”
Grandma says. “She’s got a daughter and a son now. Corrinne is friends with Kitsy, who is a real sweet girl.”

“Now, now,” Grandpa says. “How about we leave Corrinne with her momma?” Grandpa starts heading toward the door with Grandma and Ginger at his heels.

“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.
visit you for her fall break. I’ll use my miles for the ticket. Feel better.