Where I Belong (7 page)

I am totally depressed that this isn’t the dirt I needed for a ticket to Kent. To cope, I find my iPod and earphones and listen to my most emo playlist. As I cram two suitcases’ worth of clothes into a closet that must’ve been designed for doll clothes, I wallow in my misery. Just as I am wondering if anyone—even these emo rockers—have ever hurt as bad as me, I spin around to find Grandpa opening the door.

“Sorry, Corrinne, I didn’t mean to startle you. I
knocked, but I don’t think you heard.” He points at my iPod. “You young people and your music. All tuned out of the world. The radio used to be something we shared…. Anyway, I want to hear more about your first day, and it’s time for supper. Hurry now, because I have a surprise,” Grandpa says, and winks obviously for about ten seconds. He looks like he has twitch.

Glancing at my watch, I see it’s only ten minutes past five. I am not sure if this is an elderly thing or a Texas thing, but I can’t imagine eating right now. Sighing, I take off my iPod and join everyone at the table anyway.

When we are all seated, Grandma says, “Let’s say a prayer for the first day of school.” She pauses and bows her head. “Thank you, God, for bringing us another school year and bringing us our grandchildren to share it with.”

I mimic my grandma’s gesture and look down at my plate. My parents don’t do religion, and this dinner-table grace is the closest I’ve been to formally talking to God.

“Before we dig into Grandma’s brisket and get all dirty, I have something to give Corrinne,” Grandpa says, and he plucks a folded-up piece of paper out of his pocket. “I got this at the DMV.”

The pamphlet reads, “Parent-Taught Driver Education Program.” I am not sure what this means, so I look at Grandpa for an answer.

“In Texas, we teach our kids, or grandkids in our case,
to drive. And I taught your momma in Billie Jean the First and now I am going to teach you in Billie Jean the Second.”

Hold on. I have no plans to get a license ever. Mostly because it’s illegal to drink and drive. My only future automobile plans involve taxis and drivers, not pickup trucks with rust stains and Grandpa.

“Oh, Grandpa, thanks,” I say. “But in New York, you don’t need a license. We pay people to drive us.”

“Corrinne,” Grandma starts, “this isn’t New York. You will get your license. We can’t be driving you all over the place. And besides, women worked hard for all their rights, including the privilege to drive.”

“You’ll love it,” Grandpa says as he tussles my hair. “You’re just having first-time jitters.”

Tripp’s eyes get really big. “And then, Corrinne, when you get your license, me and you can go to Sonic!”

I smile at Tripp as I imagine shaking him, and I think the only place that I am heading if I get my license is due northeast. There will be no stops made at Sonic. Hey, maybe I should learn how to drive…. It might be my only escape route now that blackmail seems to be out of the picture. But I’ll need to ditch Billie Jean the Second before I make it to Manhattan. Cruising New York’s streets in a pickup truck would make for horrendous public relations. What if the paparazzi or my friends spotted me?

“First lesson will be Saturday, Corrinne,” Grandpa says. “Eight a.m. sharp!”

“And Corrinne, you need to call your mother,” Grandma says as she dishes out huge portions of something called brisket, which looks like a vegan’s worst nightmare.

“Yes, Corrinne,” echoes Grandpa, “I think she’s lonely in the city with you kids in Texas and your dad in Dubai.”

I try not to gasp.
She’s
lonely.
She’s
at home, surrounded by everything familiar—our apartment, the restaurants we go to, the shops we shop in, and the city that we love. And
she’s
lonely? Please.

“Guess what, Corrinne?” Tripp says with a mouthful of brisket. “Mom says there might be a buyer for our New York apartment, and if there is, she’s coming to the Spoke soon.”

A buyer? Mom coming to Texas? I take a big breath. It’s all really happening. This recession has destroyed my life. My sprawling apartment with its Hudson River views, my hunky doorman, and all my memories are being sold. And I am about to become roommates with my mother and not Waverly. There really will be no Kent, no Smith, no equestrian team, and no promising future. So much for my potential.

A single tear suddenly rolls down my face and splatters onto my plate. I quickly wipe my eye and blink frantically to stop more tears from falling.

Looking up, I see my grandpa staring at me with his kind brown eyes. Oh,
that’s
where I get brown eyes. Thanks a lot, Grandpa!

“Cheer up, sunshine,” Grandpa says. “This Friday is the Mockingbirds’ first game.”

I bite my lip hard enough to distract myself from tears and spear a blob of brown meat. What the hell is brisket, anyway?

P.R., pre-recession, I could’ve shopped my way out of this funk like the time that Carlton Sanders told everyone I kissed badly. Not enough tongue, he said. How much tongue did he want? Kissing shouldn’t feel like a trip to the orthodontist. The shopping spree that followed lasted an entire weekend. I even went to
Brooklyn
to harvest their boutiques. And at the end of it, I
did
feel better, and my new wardrobe distracted everyone from Carlton’s insane comments. But now, with my credit cards frozen, I can’t even online-shop my way out of this.

Well, there’s always greasy brisket, and like everything else from Grandma’s kitchen, it’s shockingly delicious. I hope I packed my sweats because I might need an elastic waistband soon.

Chapter 5

If That Mockingbird Doesn’t Win, Broken Spoke’s Going to Have a Breakdown

S
OMEHOW
, I
MAKE IT TO
F
RIDAY
, the football season opener. The chocolate-chip, apple, granola, and blueberry pancakes, the casseroles, the pound cake, the rhubarb pie, and the snickerdoodles—they all greatly helped me survive. I am going to need to cut this eating orgy out. Between eating at Grandma Sandy’s Road-to-Diabetes kitchen and not having a gym or Sweetbread to ride, I am so not going to fit into my clothes by Thanksgiving. And it’s not exactly like I can go shopping for new clothes because a) it’s A.R., After the Recession, and b) where would I go?

Oprah is definitely onto something with that emotional-
eating concept. When Oprah asks, “What are you truly hungry for?” my answer is: “I am starving for New York, for Barneys, for Bleecker boutiques, for dinners at Il Posto with friends, for sneaking into clubs, for getting ready for Kent, for falling in love with Smith, and for living the life I am supposed to be living. I am so hungry, Oprah.” Perhaps I could get on her show as a guest: She could be my sponsor, right? I’ve seen her give away free cars. So why not restore people’s lives to their rightful place?

And to make life worse, it’s a Friday without a social itinerary except for a Saturday driving date with Grandpa in the a.m.

After Spanish class Kitsy approaches me.

“Hola, Corrinne,”
Kitsy says, and moves from one foot to the other, “
¿Como estás?
Wait, I am talking in
español
after class? That’s really lame. So anyways, what are you doing this weekend?”

I shrug, even though I know the answer: driving Billie Jean the Second and eating leftover brisket.

“Are you going to the game?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“To tell you a secret,” she says, lowering her voice, “I get sick of football too, but I’m a Mockingbirdette, so I’m required to go. I’m sure you guessed that with me wearing the uniform and all.”

I don’t respond, but Kitsy keeps going.

“Anyways, the good part of game night is there’s always a party afterward. If you want to go, find me.”

For some inexplicable reason, I nod. Nodding, I believe even in Texas, is the universal sign for yes. I think the heat is going to my brain.

“Great,” Kitsy says, and saunters away in her gray Mockingbirdette cheerleading uniform, holding her pom-poms in one hand and her books in the other. Broken Spoke Question of the Day: Why does Kitsy bring her pom-poms to class? Best guess: so she can cheer effectively if there was ever an emergency situation.

Señor Luis must be forcing Kitsy to take me on as some charity project. Or maybe this is one of those teen movies where the kids lure the new student into some trap. Because on top of me and Kitsy having nothing in common, I gather that Kitsy’s actually popular at Hairspray and Cowboy Boot High. Unlike me, she’s not exactly lacking for friends, which makes her attention all the more confusing. Maybe she’s looking for a free place to stay if she ever gets to Manhattan. But if our apartment sells, it looks like even I will be staying at a hotel.

Despite Grandma’s protests against the unfair allocations of time and money on the football team, she still dons a steel-gray Mockingbird sweatshirt and hops into
Billie Jean the Second with Tripp, Grandpa, and me for the kickoff game.

“Of course I am going, Corrinne,” Grandma says. “Season opener is like prom for the whole town. And everyone’s been on me to make my Mockingbird cupcakes since last season ended.”

And with good reason. Grandma’s Mockingbird cupcakes beat out any of New York’s famous Magnolia Bakery cupcakes: Each is a perfectly moist red velvet cake with a tiny lifelike mockingbird shaped out of mascarpone perched on top. Grandma has baked enough for the whole town and probably the rival town’s team, the Bolston Bluebonnets, as well.

When we arrive at the game two hours before it’s actually going to start, the entire parking lot’s filled with people. It looks like a gray sea. Everywhere people are wandering around the parking lot, and every car’s trunk is open and every pickup’s tailgate is down. There are enough portable grills and coolers to feed and quench the entire state of Texas, the second largest state in America, mind you.

Tripp squeals, “Tailgating—just like on TV. Awesome. Dad promised to take me to a Jets game to tailgate even though he hates football, but, you know, work came up. This is way cooler than I thought.”

Grandpa pulls into one of the last empty spots. Jumping out, Tripp hollers back to us, “Got to go find my
friends. See you after the game.”

Ah, so this is tailgating. The all-American ritual of hanging out in parking lots and eating unidentifiable grilled meats out of pickup trucks. In the city, we would never do this because we use cars to get from place to place, not as party furniture. The whole scene seems rather disgusting, and I hope that it forces me to lose my growing appetite.

I am relieved to see that the young people dress up somewhat for the event. Getting ready, I worried that my outfit—a soft gray linen dress with a pink cardigan—might be too extreme. Because I lack pride or any feelings other than hatred toward Broken Spoke, I had no desire to wear gray. But ultimately I decided there’s no use in sticking out more than I already do, so I wore it anyway.

I need to iPhone this tailgate scene to my father in Dubai. Seeing me here might change his attitude. He says football is for meatheads; real gentlemen golf and play polo, games of skill, not brute force. I don’t exactly agree, but I am willing to use anything to my advantage. Of course, the eight-hour time difference is making it a bit difficult to get ahold of him.

Since Tripp galloped off with his friends, I am left with Grandma, Grandpa, and their group of friends, which appears to include the entire town.

Grandma pulls me up to a large group of ladies wearing Mockingbird gear.

“Here, have a cupcake,” Grandma says, and hands them out to the group. “I just know how y’all have been waiting for one. And this, this is my granddaughter, Corrinne. She’s enrolled at Broken Spoke this fall. And her little brother, Tripp, is at the middle school. He bounded off with his new best friends. You’ll recognize him; he’s the one who looks like he belongs in a cereal commercial.”

The entire group’s eyes get big, almost in unison.

“Jenny Jo’s daughter?” someone mutters in my direction.

“Last time I saw her was in
People
magazine at some gala,” another one remarks.

“She’s the one that got away,” laments another.

“How is she?” one lady asks, and looks in my direction.

I don’t know how to answer, so I just raise my shoulders and say, “You can ask her yourself; she’ll probably be here in a few weeks.”

And then the group chuckles, and again it is almost synchronized. Creepy.

“No way, Jenny Jo’s not coming back to Broken Spoke ever,” replies a heavyset lady wearing a red sweatshirt with a gray sequin mockingbird patched on.

I want to tell this woman that this is the fall of surprises. And if Corrinne is here in the Spoke,
Jenny Jo
better show up too.

At this point, Grandpa approaches the group, puts his arms around my shoulders, and saves me.

“How about we go taste some of Broken Spoke’s finest BBQ?” he says, steering me away from the Gossiping Grannies.

And as we leave the group, I can hear my grandma yakking about recession this, recession that, and yes, twenty years is a long time.

With Grandpa and his buddies, I get to relive Broken Spoke’s last State Championship season, game by game, play by play. Although it occurred fifty-two years ago, these men talk in the present tense as if it were days ago rather than a half century.

Grandma, Grandpa, and I eventually settle into front-row seats in the senior citizen section and the kickoff occurs. I sigh. Finally. An eerie, deadly silence takes over the Broken Spoke crowd until they score the first touchdown. I swear to you no one even breathes until the Mockingbirds are up by seven. Soon after, that kid Bubby from my Spanish class intercepts the ball and scores the second touchdown. Our section erupts into deafening applause; I’ve heard sirens that are more pleasing to the ears.

Grandpa points to number twenty, Bubby.

“You meet that boy yet, Corrinne?” Grandpa asks when the thunder of applause dies out. “They say he’s
going to make it big-time. Division one, Longhorn scholarship, maybe even the NFL one day. We haven’t ever had a Spoker make it to the NFL. All talk right now, of course, but I think he’s got it. Real good kid, too. Academic as well, so your grandmomma says. Way back when, your momma knew his father.”