Where I Belong (19 page)

Ginger comes into my office and hands me a copy of last year’s rodeo program. It’s black-and-white and totally amateur.

“Ginger,” I start slowly, “do you think I could update this?”

I don’t add “to the twenty-first century,” but I am thinking it. I am getting better at filtering every day.

“What are you considering?” Ginger asks, looking it over.

“I could attach a picture to each event,” I say, becoming inspired. “A sheep on the mutton busting, a barrel for the barrel racing, and so on. It’ll be simple and chic. Think Kate Spade.”

“Who’s Kate Spade? Does she live in Broken Spoke?” Ginger asks. Before I can answer that she’s a famous
designer, Ginger says, “Do what you want, sweetie, but remember, we can’t spend any money on it. The whole purpose of this rodeo is to keep our doors open. And if I had any extra money, I’d spend it on equipment to help kids with handicaps get to ride. The worst thing ever is when I have to turn kids away just because I can’t afford the stuff that’d make it safe.”

And then I have a flash of business genius.

“How about a silent auction?” I ask. “It’s free to put on and every good party in New York has one. The money raised can go toward buying the equipment you want for the kids.”

“What a nice idea!” Ginger says. “But auction what? Everyone around here is pretty strapped these days.”

I think for a moment. What would anyone want from Broken Spoke?

“Sonic,” I answer. “My friend Kitsy works there. And I bet Chin’s would donate too. And my grandpa’s a mechanic, so he could offer services. Plus, we both know Grandma likes any excuse to bake. Maybe she could do cooking lessons.”

Even I am surprised with my ingenuity. Of course, the items aren’t a week at the Ritz in Cabo or dinner with the mayor, but it will still make the rodeo a bit more glamorous and give it a philanthropic element.

“Sure, girl,” Ginger says. “I love the way you are
thinking. And it would be great to finally be able to have all Spokers ride here.”

I don’t admit my sprucing up the rodeo is mostly because I don’t want Waverly to think that Broken Spoke’s totally primitive. Even though it won’t be like a gala for the opera, I am most certainly going to make it the best rodeo this town has ever seen. And I can add it to my college application if I am not touring with Rider full-time by then.

With Rider working in the barn and me working inside the office, I only see him during our car rides. Since Tripp’s there, the romance factor is in the negative, especially considering Tripp hums the
Twilight Zone
theme every time we get close. Besides, Rider keeps asking about Mr. Porticelli and Portia, and I have run out of excuses.
I Facebooked Portia to ask. She’s spending the semester abroad. I don’t know how Internet access in Bermuda is….
I am hoping that Waverly will help me solve this one. Maybe she’s met some other music mogul’s kid at Kent.

Rider’s having a concert in his garage over the weekend, the same garage where his band all started. His parents won’t be there, and it’s happening after the game, literally Friday Night After the Lights. I wonder if Rider would ever sing my song in public. Hopefully he’ll save that for Waverly’s visit, so she’ll be jealous of
something
in Texas. My grandpa’s going to drive with me to the airport
to get Waverly, and I am pumped for her to see me behind the driver’s wheel. She’s going to totally flip. If she doesn’t have a heart attack then, she’s definitely going to have one when she sees Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Thank God Mom agreed to sleep on the couch that weekend.

“So that’s where the term
garage band
comes from,” Waverly says over the phone as I explain that tonight I am actually going to a concert in a garage.

I am standing outside the stadium (Spoke won again), chatting with Waverly and waiting for Kitsy.

“Yeah,” I say, turning it over. “I always thought it was a type of music like pop or rap. But I guess not.”

Waverly’s been calling a lot this week, and I am looking forward to actually seeing her. She asks a lot of questions about the Spoke, but avoids my questions about Kent. I am not sure if it’s because she’s doing things with Smith that she’d rather not say or because Kent doesn’t live up to the pretty pictures in its brochures.

“Texas sounds so…interesting,” Waverly says. “I can’t believe it’s already October and that I’ll see you—and it—in a week. We still really need to talk packing list. I am so glad that Ralph Lauren did Western chic for the past four seasons.”

Looking to avoid explaining about how Broken Spoke wear and Ralph Lauren couture are a bit different, I
happily spot Kitsy running over.

“I gotta run because Kitsy’s here.”

“What’s a Kitsy?” Waverly asks.

“My friend; that’s her name,” I answer, waving Kitsy down.

“Weird name,” Waverly says. “And I didn’t think you had friends in Texas.”

“Okay,
Waverly,
” I say back, and roll my eyes even though Waverly can’t see me do it. “Love ya, x and o.”

I end the phone call and smile at Kitsy.

“I liked the new cheer,” I say.

And I did; it was a totally creative version of the song “Mockingbird.”

“Thanks! Let’s go find Hands,” Kitsy says, humming the tune under her breath. “It’s not like I am
not
excited for the party, but I have to say that my ears still hurt after your crush’s
last
concert.”

“Fair,” I say to Kitsy, remembering the torturous lyrics. “I wonder if rock star girlfriends ever think that way. Like, ‘If I hear that song one more time, we might have to break up.’”

“I feel like that with football sometimes,” Kitsy admits. “If I hear one more time how the right tackle should have gone left instead of right, I might go catawampus. But don’t tell Hands; it would hurt his feelings.”

Kitsy and I head toward the parking lot. Unfortunately,
we’re sharing a ride with Hands
and
Bubby. Just like with cabs in NYC, you don’t always get to choose who drives you place to place. I am just happy to get wherever I’m going.

Rider’s garage looks just like Grandma and Grandpa’s garage, except it’s packed with all his band stuff. There’s not enough room inside for the audience, so we hang on the driveway.

There are a few folding chairs that face the garage, so I go and sit in one.

Bubby follows me.

“I had fun at the dance, surprisingly enough. And we still need to rematch in horseshoes. Last time I think I was just tired from, you know, being a football star and all. Plus, it’s a one-arm sport—it’d be good for you.”

“I thought you didn’t like Rider’s music,” I say, not looking away from the garage.

“I don’t,” Bubby says. “But I like the scenery,” he says, staring at me and winking.

“Sick,” I say, looking down.

“One day, Manhattan,” he says. “I know how these stories go. Girl falls for music boy. Music boy breaks girl’s heart. Girl falls for good boy.”

“Funny,” I say, watching Rider tune his guitar. “I always thought it was girl falls for football jerk, football
jerk breaks her heart, girl falls for a dork.”

“But I am all of those: the football player, the good boy, and the dork,” Bubby says, and stands up to leave. “So what happens to me?”

“I don’t know. You’re not in my story,” I reply, happy to see that Bubby’s going.

“All righty then, I am going to have some actual fun,” Bubby says, and covers his ears with his hands. “Hopefully, you brought ear plugs.”

“Oh, Bubby,” I say. “My best friend is coming next weekend. She likes a good project. Maybe she’ll take you on for charity. She can use it as a tax deduction, right?”

“I wouldn’t want you to get jealous,” Bubby says, and heads back to his friends.

Kitsy comes down and sits with me. After about twenty minutes of the concert, I am convinced that being a musician’s girlfriend isn’t any better than being a football player’s wife. Rider’s really talented and everything, but the songs get old, especially since I think the apocalypse inspires them. Plus, Rider’s barely looking at me. Finally, Kitsy says, “How about we do a lap around the party?”

“Agreed,” I say, standing up. Rider keeps playing without noting our departure. Waverly always says watch out for men who love something more than themselves or you. Their passion can be your prison. I never really got that piece of advice until I realized to what level Rider was into
his music. Even if I was naked in the crowd, I still don’t think he’d turn away from the music.

Kitsy looks back at Rider and shakes her head.

“Sometimes I think that all the music goes to his head,” Kitsy says, looping her arm with mine.

“I hope that’s it,” I say, trying not to sound too disappointed. Waverly says to never wear your emotions in your voice.

“What does Waverly like to do? Let’s plan something fun for her. This might be a first: two Manhattan teens in the Broken Spoke. Hey, it’s totally like that retro show with Nicole and Paris traveling to small towns.”

Except this is not reality TV and neither Waverly nor I is getting fame, publicity, or a paycheck for this. Building an itinerary for Waverly in Broken Spoke would be a travel agent’s biggest nightmare. Not only do I have to drag her to the rodeo, but I also have absolutely nothing else planned for her visit. Plus, it doesn’t look like Rider is going to be as good a show-and-tell as I thought.

“I have an idea,” Kitsy says. “Let’s design T-shirts for the rodeo and sell them. And we can give the profits to Ginger for the kids. Waverly can run the table while you do the auction, and I can help my brother with his mutton busting.”

Giving Waverly a job is an interesting proposition. While Waverly is most certainly not industrious, she does
love power and a good sale. And I do need to find something to keep her occupied.

“That’s a good idea, Kitsy,” I say. “What should the T-shirts look like?”

“I am thinking something funny,” Kitsy says as we move away.

“Like how funny?” I say.

Kitsy suggests: “How about ‘Just Rope It’?”

“That’s good,” I say. “How about this one? ‘Real Cowgirls Ride Bareback.’”

Kitsy and I both look down at my sling.

“I’m so happy I get this monster off, just in time for the rodeo,” I say. “Could you sketch out the T-shirt?” I ask.

“Sure,” Kitsy says. “Let’s hope my makeup skills transfer to T-shirt design. This year’s rodeo will be so much better than last year’s.” Kitsy looks over to Hands and waves. “You know, Corrinne, it’s clear that you aren’t too happy to be in Texas. But I want you to know that it sure has made my year so much better.”

And the rodeo is making my year better too. Of course, I know that the rodeo won’t be like some of the parties and dances that I’ve attended, but the parents and professional party planners always organize those. Super Secret: It’s a tiny bit of fun to actually get involved. It keeps my mind off my life in New York, my MIA dad, and oh yeah—Rider.

I look back at Rider, who is still singing in the garage even though not a single person is watching. And then I look over at Bubby, whose doing a one-handed handstand. It doesn’t look like tonight will be my night with Rider. So I take Kitsy’s hand and march over to the group.

“How about we all play some football?” I say to Bubby, tapping his butt as he attempts to stay in his handstand. “You boys are only undefeated because you haven’t taken on true competition.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Bubby says, steadying himself back onto two feet.

“But I am only playing if it’s touch football.”

And all the other football boys elbow one another and grunt.

“Okay,” I say, “but be nice, I’ve only got one good arm.”

Even though I’ve never played with a football, I hook the ball under my non-slinged arm and start trotting off with it. Bubby gently grabs me around the waist and pulls me to the ground.

“Touchdown,” he whispers.

Of course, I am totally not into Bubby, but it feels good to get the attention from someone. Even a Neanderthal. And you know what, I was even able to throw a spiral by the end of the night.

Chapter 13

Welcome to the Broken Spoke, Waverly

T
HE WEEK OF THE RODEO
and Waverly’s big visit comes in an instant. Between getting the pamphlets ready, the auction organized, and the T-shirts designed and printed, I have no time to Waverly-proof Broken Spoke. On the day of her arrival, I find a Tibi dress in the back of my closet and spend considerable extra time getting ready. I don’t want Waverly to think that just because I left New York that I let myself go. You know, like what college freshman girls do.

Grandpa picks me up early from school, and he lets me drive the entire trip to the Dallas airport. Driving is a lot easier now that I am sans my sling. I’m glad I am healed because I don’t think Waverly would believe that slings are the newest “it” accessory.

I forgot how desolate the drive is. My stomach gets butterflies thinking about what Waverly will think of it all: the cows, the stretches of nothingness, the truck stops, Broken Spoke in general. And my whole pull-the-Rider-card idea to make Waverly think life in Texas isn’t all terrible has not been going well. The majority of the time Rider and I have talked recently, he just asked me about my music contacts. If I weren’t so fun and pretty, I’d think he was using me.

When we get to the airport, Grandpa and I idle in the cell phone lot, which is for people waiting to pick up passengers. With each passing second, my anxiety grows. What will Waverly think? What will Waverly say? What will Waverly do?

“How are you feeling, Corrinne?” Grandpa says, turning from the passenger seat to look at me.

“Fine, Grandpa,” I lie. “Just tired from getting ready for the rodeo.” This isn’t exactly true, but how do you tell your grandpa that you’re worried his life won’t be up to your best friend’s standards? You can take Waverly out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of Waverly.

“You know, Corrinne,” Grandpa says, fiddling with the radio, “you’ve surprised me with how much you’ve built a life for yourself in Broken Spoke.”