Where I Belong (6 page)

“Kitsy,” Señor Luis says, “you see that Señorita Corrinne doesn’t get lost and makes her way to the next class.”

“Sí, sí,”
Kitsy says as she turns around to smile and
gives me a small-town pageant wave.

She looks like a grown-up version of a kid from that
Toddlers & Tiaras
show.

I give my best smile back. Good thing I took all those cotillion classes, which taught me the correct fork for salad and how to pretend to be a lady. I have gotten good at pretending.

Kitsy’s probably a sweet girl and all, but I am not shopping for friends.

After class, Kitsy comes right up to me, shakes my hand, and says, “Hi, I’m Kitsy Kidd. I just can’t believe you are from Manhattan. I’ve always wanted to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Have you been there? I really want to see Van Gogh’s
Starry Night
.” She stops and exhales. “Are you on Facebook? Add me. Be happy to show you around Broken Spoke. But I am warning you, there’s not much to show and the leading cause of death is boredom.”

I wonder if there’s a Starbucks at the school that I don’t know about because this girl Kitsy appears to be highly caffeinated. Since I don’t know what question to answer first, I just nod.

The kid who sat next to me and harassed me comes up to me and gives me a pat on the back “See you around, Manhattan.”

I want to tell him that’s an island and a drink, not a nickname. But why waste my time?

Kitsy rolls her eyes and punches the boy on the arm. “Don’t worry about Bubby, he’s harmless, but he’s got enough tongue for ten rows of teeth…. He’ll probably end up getting a crush on you. Do you have a boyfriend? I bet a girl like you has, like, ten thousand boyfriends.”

Tongue for ten rows of teeth? Nobody told me that I would need a translator in Texas. Maybe there’s an iPhone app on how to speak Texan.

She breathes, pops a piece of gum, and starts again. “What’s your next class? I’ll point you toward it.”

If Kitsy ever comes up for air again, I’ll tell her that I don’t have a boyfriend. And I’ll never get one since Smith Cunnington will probably find some other less-cute sophomore to make out with since I won’t be at Kent. Last night I sent him a Facebook message that I might “spend a year abroad.” I figured that Texas definitely qualifies as foreign exchange.

I walk away from Kitsy.

“Thanks for your help, Kitsy,” I say over my shoulder. “I am sure that I’ll find my next class on my own.”

“Okay. Just want you to know it’s exciting to have you here. We don’t get people from New York City in Broken Spoke, like, ever. The only people that really visit from out of town are the traveling rodeos,” Kitsy says, following after me at my heels.

I finally lose Kitsy around a corner. I am not trying to
be rude to her, but I am worried that I am about to burst into tears. Waverly has always been my plus one and while I appreciate Kitsy’s offer to be my Texan ambassador, I really just want to be alone in my misery.

Amazingly, I negotiate this large public school without GPS assistance. Can you believe my third-period class is Texas State History? Guess what? The state fruit is the red grapefruit, the gem is blue topaz, and the flower is the bluebonnet. And the state animal is the longhorn. Gripping historical information, I know. Ugh! I am supposed to be in European History, where I’d study about queens and kings, and here I am learning about cowboys and the Alamo. What a waste. This will put me way behind once I get back to real life.

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.