Where I Belong (16 page)

After an hour of slow swaying with a few bathroom wine cooler stops, Kitsy and I are still standing up front and I’m still unsuccessfully trying to get Rider to open his eyes and notice me. Then Bubby and Hands make their way up to us.

“Okay, girls, we’re out now. Let’s listen to some
real
music rather than this suicide sound track,” Bubby says, and he grabs my hand. “As Kitsy would cheer, P-A-R-T-Y time.”

I want to argue to stay and watch Rider, but WWWD? Waverly advises never to wait on anyone and to be sure to leave before the curtain falls, so I follow the group out.

We climb into Hands’s truck and head to the field, the same one as before. It’s not even completely dark when we arrive; a bunch of kids have already beaten us there and are gathered around the three kegs. Apparently, the school dance is just a front for the actual party. At least that’s one
common thing between here and New York.

“All right, Manhattan,” Bubby says. “Let’s get our party on.”

Figuring that I might as well loosen up a bit before Rider (hopefully) shows up, I head to the migration of students at the keg and collect a warm beer.

Bubby walks up to Hands’s truck and pulls out a bag from the cab.

“What about horseshoes?” Bubby asks.

“Horseshoes?” I ask.

“Yes,” Bubby says. “It’s croquet for the common folk. No manicured grass courts or whites required. But you probably wouldn’t want to get your fancy dress all dirty, would you, Manhattan?”

I don’t bother to tell him that it’s a $24.99 bargain-bin find. Let him think I am a snob, what do I care? And I get that he’s not a fashion critic, but it’s still awesome that he can’t tell that it’s not expensive.

Stepping up to Bubby, I take a horseshoe from his hand.

“I like anything that’s a competition, especially when it means I can beat you. How do you play again?” I ask, examining the horseshoe, which is twice as large as a real one.

Bubby walks about fifty feet away and twists a post into the ground.

He walks back and puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s me against you,” he says. “I’ll go first. Watch this because you are going to want to copy it.”

Bubby, with an underhand toss, hurls the horseshoe toward the stake. It lands close, but not at the stake.

“Don’t worry,” Bubby says. “You’re a beginner and a city girl, and so I won’t laugh. Or I won’t laugh too hard,” he says.

With a horseshoe in my hand, I look to Bubby and Kitsy, who’s now standing next to him. “I am used to adapting; I think I’ve proved that,” I say.

I toss it and it lands almost on the stake.

Pointing at it, I say, “Pretty sure that means I win. Like they say, close only counts in horseshoes and grenades. By the way, I have played horseshoes, like, at least a dozen times in Central Park. Guess I am not the only one with stereotypes, Bubby.”

“Touché, Manhattan. And I’ll admit you’re not bad for a girl,” Bubby says, and taps me on the butt. “Especially a city girl,” he adds.

The liquid’s making me feel nicer, so I decide not to break Bubby’s arm. “And you aren’t so bad for a Neanderthal,” I say, and give Bubby a little hip check.

A few horseshoe wins later, I spy Rider’s car drive into the field. Parking among the trucks, his two-door Honda
sticks out. Perfect, I think, it’s just like him—standing out in a crowd. I don’t walk over to him right away; I stay by the keg and wait for him to get thirsty. Finally, he walks over.

“Hey, girl,” he says. “You left early.”

I stumble as I sip my beer. “I was hoping that I’d get a private concert later, so I figured it would be okay to leave early. Want a beer before the football team empties the kegs?”

“I don’t drink,” Rider says. “It’s too generic for a musician because it’s totally expected and it eventually ruins your career or your life. I am sober.”

“Oh,” I say, dumping out the rest of my beer in the grass. “Me too, really. I was just thirsty.” I figure Rider’s no-drink policy must also keep those washboard abs intact, so I am grateful for his sobriety.

And then Bubby walks up and edges between Rider and me. “So you don’t drink now, Manhattan?” he says, tousling my hair.

Please, Bubby, I think, go back to your cave. Didn’t we both agree that it was an arranged date and haven’t we both fulfilled our contractual duties?

Rider looks Bubby straight in the eye and says, “How about that concert, Corrinne? I got my guitar in the car.” And as if we are in a movie, he takes my hand and walks me away. Ohmigod, it’s all happening. I can hear Bubby
making puking noises behind us, but I pay no mind. Corrinne’s finally got her groove back.

Rider collects his guitar. We sit down around the deserted bonfire; Rider even lays out his corduroy coat for me to sit on.

“Don’t want you to ruin your pretty dress, darling,” he says.

“Oh, this old thing?” I drawl before I wink at him.

“I wrote you a song,” Rider says, pulling his guitar out of the case.

“W-what?” I stammer. I want to say I thought you were gay or blind or both, but I pull it together. Never look surprised that someone wants you, Waverly says. Why should that be a surprise?

“Only one person’s ever done that before,” I lie between my teeth.

“Well, you inspired me. The girls here are boring. No one thinks about anything besides the next game or the next party. Everyone seems content to just get old and die here,” Rider says as he starts to strum the guitar. “You seem different.”

I look around: Where is a camera when I need one? I don’t care that I am wearing a cheap, beer-stained dress. I am being serenaded by the hottest rocker ever. Talk about a new profile picture! My new Facebook status update needs to be,
Sometimes your life figures out how to get amazing, See y’all on the next cover of
Us Weekly.

Rider keeps strumming. “This isn’t really my usual style, but I want to go solo eventually.”

Brilliant, I think. Rider is already about to pull a Nick Jonas and drop his band. Smart Rider, because going solo will just get him more name recognition and he won’t just be the hot guy from that After the Lights band. He’ll be Rider Jones. And then we won’t have to deal with the band being jealous of the girlfriend—that Yoko Ono thing…. Enough talking, Rider. More singing about me. I cock my head to one side and gaze into Rider’s eyes.

And in the telltale tune of “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” Rider strums away:

“Almost heaven, her Levi jeans

Third-rate small town

Middle of nowhere

Life is sad here

Sadder than a teardrop

Sadder than a broken heart

Broken Spoke

City girl, take me away

To the place I belong

New York City, Manhattan girl

Take me there, city girl.”

So Rider
did
notice my Levi’s. I blink a bunch of times and try to hold back my tears. He really did notice me; my shoveling manure wasn’t a total waste. I start a slow clap and don’t look away from Rider. He gently puts down his guitar and crawls toward me. Closing my eyes, I feel his lips on my own.

And then in the middle of the lip lock, I hear a distinctive voice, Bubby’s voice, calling, “Manhattan, Grandma and Grandpa want you home before it’s dark. Hurry before you turn back into a stiletto.”

Pulling back from Rider, I spot the Neanderthal getting closer. I want to tell Bubby to get lost because I am in the middle of the most romantic moment of my
entire life.

“It’s okay,” Rider says. “You should go. I need to work on the rest of your song.”

I stand up to leave. Waverly always says act like your interest in a guy is a seven, even if it is really an eleven. And I am so calling Waverly the
second
I get home. I wish I could’ve iPhoned her that kiss.

Bubby just shakes his head at me. “A city girl like you sweet on some wannabe rock star. I thought you’d be smarter, Corrinne.”

“And I didn’t think you knew my real name,” I reply, following him to Hands’s truck and trying desperately to resist my urge to turn my head back to Rider. Never look
back, Waverly says. You can undo all your hard work at playing it cool in just a single glance.

I arrive at Grandma and Grandpa’s doorstep at 12:05 a.m. My head’s still a little fuzzy, part warm beer hangover, part I-just-fell-in-love. Crossing my fingers that my preteenlike curfew has a few minutes’ leeway, I am relieved to see the house is pitch-black.

I fumble my way into my pitch-black room.

“Hi, Corrinne,” a familiar voice says from the sheets.

“Holy shit!” I stumble and fall onto the bed. “Hi, Mom.”

“You smell like cheap beer,” my mom says, and shakes her head.

“And you arrived unannounced,” I say, making my way under the covers.

“Apartment officially got sold,” she says. “And I took the next flight out. I’ve missed my kids, so put on your pajamas and tell me about Texas since you don’t return my calls.”

All I can think is Rider, Rider, Rider, world tour, magazine photo spreads, free clothes, swag, the end of this recession…but I indulge my mother. My phone call to Waverly will have to wait; she’s probably busy getting to know Vladlena anyways. I slip off my dress and put on my pajamas.

“I hear you have a job,” my mom says as I wiggle underneath the covers. “I am proud of you, Corrinne. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

And maybe, just maybe, my mom meant that nicely, but it didn’t sound nice. I yank the comforters to my side and flip over to face the wall.

“And I didn’t know that you were a Rodeo Queen that dated someone named Dusty and then left town because you thought you were too good,” I say, and close my eyes. “Good night, Mom.”

“Corrinne,” my mother says sternly as she yanks back on the covers. “That’s not true.”

“Hmm,” I whisper. “You’d better call the newspaper and get them to write an editorial then because that’s how everyone remembers you, Jenny Jo.”

My mother sits up straight in bed, as if waking from a nightmare.

She reaches across me and turns on the bedside lamp.

I quickly cover my eyes with my hands.

“Are you trying to blind me?” I shriek. “You’ve taken everything else, and now you are taking my eyesight.”

Flipping onto my stomach, I envelop my head with a pillow.

“Corrinne,” my mom says loudly, “don’t talk about things you don’t know.”

I fumble for the light and switch it back off.

“Maybe we’re just talking about things you want to forget,” I say, turning over onto my back. “Why don’t you check out that box in the closet tomorrow? I think a few of Grandma’s tears might still be in it.”

My mom falls back into a lying position.

“What box?” she says.

“Oh, just the box with flower clippings, dress patterns, and recipes. You know, for the wedding Grandma planned for you, the one you shunned for the Plaza. But as you said, it’s nothing I know anything about. Night night,” I say, and roll back onto my stomach.

“Corrinne,” my mother starts, but I don’t answer.

“Oh God, she’s still talking about the wedding. That was twenty frickin’ years ago,” my mom mutters to herself.

Lifting my head from the pillow, I say chipperly, “See you in the morning. Just in case you also forgot, Grandma doesn’t believe in coffee.”

Nothing is going to ruin this night, not even sleeping in a full-size bed with my mother. “Almost heaven, her Levi jeans,” I softly sing to myself as a little lullaby.

Chapter 11

Back in the Saddle

W
AKING UP TO AN EMPTY BED
, I hope that the Return of the Momster was just a nightmare and that she didn’t really barge back into my life on my most romantic night ever. Unfortunately I find Mom at the kitchen table, drinking a Diet Coke at nine a.m. Where’d she get that? Grandpa and Tripp are also at the table, both chowing down on pancakes. Grandma’s perched at the stove, as per usual.

“Morning, Corrinne,” Grandpa says between bites.

“Corrinne,” Grandma says, “do you want chocolate chips in your pancakes?” And she holds up a tablespoon of chips over the batter.

“Yes, please,” I say. “Pumpkin or banana today?” I ask. I notice my mother’s mouth hanging wide open at me.

“I didn’t think you ate carbs, Corrinne,” my mom
says, eyeing my shape. “You’re looking thin too.”

“Watch it, Jenny Jo,” Grandma says in a stern voice. “We don’t do the oxygen diet under my roof.”

“That’s not what I meant, Mom,” my mom says. “It’s just surprising since she looks like she’s been dieting. From what I remember, your cooking isn’t exactly low-cal.”

Grandma walks to the table and noisily sets down another platter, then gives Mom a look. Love it.

“Oh, Mom,” I say, “I got this new bod with a thing called a job. Manual labor. You should try it,” I say. Old grudges die hard.

“You used to eat pancakes when you were her age too if you remember, Jenny Jo,” Grandpa pipes up between bites.

“Dad, don’t call me Jenny Jo. It’s J.J. now,” my mom says, almost drooling over the pancakes.

“Grandpa,” I ask, “will you drive me to the barn? I promised Ginger that I’d help out today.” This is a total lie. I don’t work Sundays, but I am just hoping that Rider might be there. If it means I get to hang out with Rider, I’ll gladly shovel manure for free.

“To Ginger’s?” my mom asks, picking a bite of pancake off Tripp’s plate. “I’ll take you there.”

“Can I come too?” Tripp begs.

“No, Tripp,” I say. “And stop asking me that. I’m sixteen, you’re twelve. We’re not friends.”

“Corrinne—” my mother starts.

Grandpa interrupts, folding up his paper and tapping Tripp on the head. “I am sure what Corrinne means is that you can’t go because me and you are going on a farm call. There’s a tractor that needs fixin’.”