Where I Belong (8 page)

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. Corcoran.”

“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.”

Yes, my mom
is
too good for this town. So am I, but it’s
not exactly like I have anyone else to talk to here, so I filter.

Or rather, I semi-filter.

“Hold on. I am not usually in the business of coming to my mom’s defense since she’s the whole reason that I am in this
hellhole.
But it’s not your place to be talking about someone you don’t know.”

“So what happened, then, Corrinne?” Bubby says, making eye contact.

“I said she doesn’t talk about Texas, and I am beginning to see why.”

I scoot toward the edge of the tailgate so I can hop down, find Kitsy, and get out of this place. So much for this party!

But Bubby blocks me by sticking his arm out. “Why exactly are you here, Corrinne? It’s obviously not to make friends.”

“I don’t know if you guys have newspapers other than your silly school one, but the country’s in a recession. New Yorkers are having a particularly tough time. We are the home to Wall Street, after all.”

“Oh yes, that recession. Go ask a couple of kids over by the fire if they’ve heard about it,” Bubby says, pointing across the field. “Farming’s been in recession for decades. And they closed the farm equipment factory over two years ago. It used to be the biggest employer in town. But there are no plans for a new factory. Our economy is not
like the stock market; it can’t just bounce back up when people hear some good news. We’re used to bad news here in Broken Spoke. Not that a princess like you would know anything about Main Street and how it is.”

“Excuse me, my father lost his job because of the recession and we lost all of our savings in a scam, so don’t say I don’t know anything about bad news,” I say, crossing my legs to face away from Bubby.

And it’s the first time, I realize, that I have said the truth out loud. To Waverly, I only implied it, and I lied to everyone else. It feels strangely cathartic, so I continue. “And my father had to move to Dubai—that’s, like, practically in Iraq—for another job.”

“Tough life, Corrinne. By the way, Dubai is in the United Arab Emirates. It’s like the Las Vegas of the Middle East—not exactly a war-torn country. Not that I would expect you to know that since you obviously don’t have any idea about anything aside from your Prada shoes and Gucci sunglasses. You only see the small picture, the self-portrait.” And with that, Bubby releases me. “Go ahead, go. You’ve already made up your mind about this town and its people. No need for you to be here.”

At least we agree on something, I think, before I quickly shove off the edge. I want to add that they aren’t Prada heels, they are Cole Haans, and I am not wearing any sunglasses, much less my Gucci pair. I decide not to bother.

Just because I have to live in Broken Spoke doesn’t mean I have to mix with its locals.