Where I Belong (12 page)

“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 just 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.”

“Well,” I say, watching Rider effortlessly finish my stall. “Maybe it’s time for me to branch out.” And maybe, just maybe, I can swing this recession and year in Texas into the story of how I met my rocker boy and became the next Nicole Richie. Maybe I could even get my own record deal out of this. And I can so already imagine us on the cover of
Us Weekly
.

I rinse three times with Kiehl’s body wash until I am convinced I no longer smell of manure. After getting dressed, I sit down at the dinner table, starving. Shoveling manure
is a better workout than the Bar Method, Pilates, and running in Central Park combined. I might just write the
Why Stable Hands Don’t Get Fat
diet book. It’s a good thing, because dinner looks especially calorie-packed tonight.

“You’ve got that industrious glow to you,” Grandpa says. “You might be a worker yet.”

I didn’t tell Grandpa that my flush is more of an “I just met a total hottie” glow than a “I love shoveling manure for minimum wage” glow.

“I would agree,” Grandma says as she brings dinner—more dead cow—to the table. “Did Ginger ask you if you want to take lessons?”

“She did,” I respond, “but I don’t think that rodeo is my style, and I’m faithful to my partner, Sweetbread. I saw Mom’s pictures, though. Where’d she get all those bedazzled tops? So ridiculous.” Ginger’s Hall of Fame had big, cheesy color glamour shots of all the past rodeo queens. Mom wore turquoise shirts with magenta rhinestones. Yikes.

“Actually, Corrinne, I made those for your mom. That’s the traditional style for rodeo queens,” Grandma replies as she sits down and stabs into the roast beef.

Oops, I’m right back on Grandma’s bad side. So what’s new? Oh well, I have to focus on how to get Rider. He totally ignored me for the last two hours that we worked, and didn’t even check me out when I bent down in front
of him when I was shoveling. I mean, really? I saw how my Levi’s fit. But I am determined. If I can’t get New York and Kent and Smith, I will get Rider. It’s justice. Those who are wronged will find justice. That’s, like, in our constitution, right?

“Big news, Corrinne,” Tripp says with his mouth full. “Mom said the person who was thinking about buying the place is definitely going to make an offer. So if it all works out right, Mom will be coming to Broken Spoke soon. And then I told her about you driving and working. She was in total shock. I could actually hear her gasp over the phone.”

Oh yes, my mother, my middle-aged roommate. Sweet. I definitely needed to get a boyfriend and get out of this tiny cottage because it’s not big enough for Mom, Grandma, and me.

After dinner, I spend alone time in my room and do the little homework that teachers assign. The best part of Broken Spoke High: Teachers give normal amounts of homework. Unlike my teachers back home, they understand that kids have lives. Of course, I have no life here, but I appreciate the courtesy.

Logging on to Facebook, I search for Kitsy Kidd. Her picture—in her Mockingbirdette cheerleading outfit—pops up. I think for a second and click
ADD AS A FRIEND
. Not much later, I get a confirmation notice. I officially have one friend in Texas. After searching for Rider on Facebook, his picture pops up—all dark, blurry, and emo
(how hot!), but I don’t friend him. I can’t be too Stalker Stacy.

Rummaging through my closet, I try to find something that I could wear to the dance. Isn’t the whole point of dances to buy something new? That’s what it was like with events in New York. If Grandma actually liked me, I could get her to alter one of my dresses into at least looking somewhat different. But on second thought, she’d probably bedazzle it. Never mind.

Maybe I will go with Kitsy to the mall. I have watched the show
Dress for Less
enough times, and sometimes they find something inexpensive that doesn’t look like it came from a mall in Kansas—or Texas. Rarely, but it has happened. With my style and accessories, there might be a dress out there decent enough to wear while watching Friday Night After the Lights. Plus, I saw on TV that shopping makes us happy because it releases endorphins. It’s also ingrained in our hunter-gatherer pasts. We need to gather to feel happy. Let me gather, let me be happy, and let Rider pull me onto the stage and ask me to star in his first music video.

Chapter 8

Is This a Mall?

P
EOPLE SAY IF YOU PRACTICE SOMETHING VERY OFTEN
, you develop muscle memory. I have practiced shopping in NYC a lot, so I am strong at it. And I know how I do it best: alone and with plastic. So thinking about shopping in tandem with Kitsy gives me major anxiety. Will I even know what to do? It also makes me remember the last time I shopped with someone and that disaster.

“You do not need this dress, Corrinne,” my mom says. “Do you really get how much money a thousand dollars is in the real world? That’s how much a wedding dress should cost, not something for a high school charity function.”

After I unzip the zebra-print full-length dress, I step out of it, pick it up from the floor and put it neatly back on the hanger. I don’t want it to get wrinkled, and I won’t have time to get it dry-cleaned before the event.

“Mom,” I say, “this is exactly why I like to shop alone so that I learn to make big decisions on my own. How else can I grow up? You won’t always be here, you know.”

My mom starts to laugh, and then she realizes that I am not joining in. Pursing her lips, she takes the hanger with the dress off the wall.

“Corrinne,” she says, “you need help. Your version of reality is seriously skewed.”