Where I Belong (21 page)

“Don’t worry,” I say, handing over the T-shirt. “You won’t be showing up in any society pages wearing a T-shirt that reads ‘Just Rope It.’ In fact, you won’t be showing up in any society pages. We’re in Broken Spoke: It’s not exactly a socialite Mecca.”

Waverly concedes and puts it on.

“It’s so”—she pauses in front of the mirror—“comfortable.” She finishes with a scrunched-up nose.

Waverly is even less enthusiastic about working the T-shirt table.

“What do I do if they want to pay by credit card? Or checks? I am not sure people still write checks, but they might in Texas. Small towns are notoriously behind the times. Maybe we should ask someone,” Waverly says.

I look at Waverly with big eyes. Is she serious?

“Don’t you worry about it,” I reassure her. “It’s a rodeo, not a foreign currency exchange bureau. It’s cash only.”

“I am just nervous,” she says, and straightens out her T-shirt. “I don’t want to mess it up because I know that you’ve worked really hard on the carnival.”

I decide not to explain to her that a rodeo is not a carnival.

Biting my tongue, I also don’t launch into how the Rodeo Queen wins an entire college scholarship and how barrel racing and roping are professional sports. They are practiced by professional athletes who make their living off of the prize money. Or how this rodeo will make the thousands of dollars that Ginger needs to buy the equipment to help handicapped kids ride.

We arrive a half hour late to Ginger’s stables. We’re late because Waverly locked herself in the bathroom to do her hair and makeup. Typical. Luckily we still have an hour before the rodeo starts.

As we walk around, the rodeo’s almost in full swing: the booths selling popcorn, hot dogs, and rodeo souvenirs are all set up. Cowmen, cowwomen, and cowchildren alike are all reading their très chic programs. Horses are lining up in all the rings. The high school debate team is face painting horseshoes and cowboy boots as a fund-raiser. There’s a level of energy that doesn’t usually exist in Broken Spoke other than at football games. We find Kitsy and her brother, Kiki, moving tables around. Kiki’s wearing a blue flannel shirt, Wrangler jeans, and his required helmet for mutton busting.

“Hi, y’all,” Kitsy says, extending her hand. “You must be Waverly. Corrinne always talks about you. We’re all worked up to meet you. Right, Kiki?” Kitsy says, and
playfully taps him on the helmet.

“And you must be Kitsy,” Waverly says, and weakly shakes Kitsy’s hand. “Is that a family name?”

Kitsy laughs. “It was my mom’s first doll’s name, her first cat’s name, and her first daughter’s name, so I guess it is a family name. You are sweet to come all the way to Texas to visit Corrinne.”

“Well, I want to be supportive of her during this tough time. I know she doesn’t really have friends or like it here,” Waverly says, checking Kitsy up and down.

OMG, Waverly. I am clearly aware that my life is somewhat a reverse
Princess Diaries
story, but why does she insist on insulting the few good things I have going on? Next, she’ll probably tell me that Rider isn’t hot.

Kitsy pauses briefly and then goes back to moving tables with her brother.

“Why don’t you two set up the auction table?” Kitsy says over her shoulder. “I’ll get the T-shirt table set up.”

Pulling out the auction sheets from the box, I admire each one. For the donated Sonic Blasts, courtesy of Kitsy and her manager, I cut out an image of a cone with three ice-cream scoops. Of course, this isn’t Christie’s or Sotheby’s, but it’s also not totally bootleg. I even think they look kind of chic.

“So,” Waverly says, looking at the cards, “I always wanted to do the paddle thing. My mom bought our Degas
drawing at an auction. My dad totally flipped because the bidding got so high. But you know how my mother feels about losing. What are the prizes? Anything I’d want?”

I snatch the cards back from Waverly.

“It’s a silent auction. No paddles. And the prizes are locally donated, so you probably wouldn’t want them. There’d be no chance to use them in Connecticut.”

“Whoa, Overreacting Ophelia,” Waverly says. “I was just asking and thinking how I could help this little town’s cause.”

Then Waverly turns to survey the scene of people pulling up to the barn with their trailers and horses.

“So where are all the boys—especially, you know, that one guy you keep talking about? I know you are obviously just doing this for a guy. I mean, why else would you volunteer for a circus?”

“His name is Rider,” I answer as I begin straightening the auction pages. “He’ll be here soon because he and his band have to set up too.”

Doing this for a guy? Please. I first started working to avoid being grounded; Rider has just been an added benefit. Besides, I actually liked getting ready for the rodeo, way more than all my silly college-application-padding activities back in New York.

“Good,” she says. “Will he bring booze? That might take the fun factor up a notch to slightly bearable.”

I look in the other direction.

“Uh,” I say, thinking this is all going worse than I thought, “Rider doesn’t drink. But I bet we’ll all go out to the field afterward to party.”

“What’s the field? And Rider’s already done rehab? That’s so typical,” Waverly says, propping herself up on the table and getting my papers messed up. “Music guys are always going to rehab,” Waverly says, and rolls her eyes.

“Waverly, let’s finish this up, and then we’ll help Kitsy with the T-shirts,” I reply, and pretend to focus intensely on my work.

“Okay,” Waverly says. “One more thing: Why is Kitsy’s brother wearing a helmet? Texas is totally weird. It’s more foreign than Vladlena’s country. Remind me to call her later. I don’t want her to go through roommate withdrawal. All the juniors tell us that happens over fall break.”

Even though I am positive that I know more about withdrawal than Waverly, I keep quiet and focus my eyes on the table, making it into a work of organized art. If I even look at Waverly, I will burst into tears or make throwing your old best friend into manure a new rodeo sport.

The rest of the setup doesn’t go any better.

Kitsy, Waverly, and I are chatting and Waverly loudly announces:

“Rodeo is such a cute theme. Maybe we’ll do this for school formal, and we can all dress up like rodeo
characters. I am going to be a clown,” she says. “But a sexy one if that’s possible.”

Mind you, there are no clowns around.

Kitsy attempts small talk.

“Hope you are having fun. I’m glad that you came to Broken Spoke,” she says. “I’d love to come to New York, and maybe even work in makeup. I did Corrinne’s for a dance.”

“Oh, you want to come to New York to do makeup? That’s so cute,” Waverly responds. “That’s like all the girls that come to do modeling but then have to become call girls. Makeup’s probably more realistic. You probably won’t have to become a call girl.”

“Waverly,” I say, “I know that you think you’re funny, but Kitsy doesn’t know you, so maybe no call girl jokes.” Turning to look at Waverly, I grit my teeth.

Kitsy laughs. But really? That’s beyond low, even for Waverly, especially since the rumor is her grandma Wilhelmina
did
start out as a high-paid call girl. Like the actual inspiration for
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

Waverly turns to face Kitsy. “I apologize. Because you and Corrinne are such good friends, I thought I could tease you, too. Apparently, Corrinne’s gotten a bit more uptight since her life didn’t turn out how she thought it would. Is she always like this now?” Waverly asks. “It’s sad; she used to be so much fun.”

Kitsy’s eyes pop out. “No, no, Waverly,” Kitsy says.
“Corrinne’s probably the most fun girl in Spoke. All the boys here are falling all over her. And there’s one of them now….”

Rider saunters up to the group. I quickly introduce Waverly to him. At this point, I am not that interested in impressing Waverly before she leaves. I am more focused on making sure she leaves alive, although I did appreciate Kitsy’s effort to make me look like the hottie of the Spoke.

“Pleased to meet you,” Rider says, smiling and tucking his hair behind his ears. He lingers when he shakes Waverly’s hand. Flipping fantastic. Rider flirting with Waverly—just one more thing to add to the list of why this day sucks.

“T.M.F.G.,” Waverly says, looking back over her shoulder at Rider as he walks away. “Now, I see why you haven’t thrown yourself under a horse.”

“What’s T.M.F.G.?” Kitsy asks.

“Total Material For Gossip,” I say, feeling silly about our old acronyms.

“I like that,” Kitsy says. “Okay, I am going to get Kiki ready for his big event. Good luck with the T-shirts and the auction.” Kitsy heads toward the mutton busters that are lining up.

“Wish Kiki good luck from me,” I call back. “Tell him to ride that sheep!”

Waverly just looks at me with big open eyes. “Ride that sheep! I didn’t think I’d ever hear those words out of your mouth.”

I laugh. “I didn’t either, Waverly. Good luck selling the T-shirts. I’ll come get you when the auction’s over.”

“Fine,” Waverly says. “But I am putting this on my college application as work experience.”

And before I am even out of her sight, I catch Waverly staring at Rider and his band as they warm up.

Once the rodeo gets under way, I almost forget about Waverly and the natural disaster this visit has become.

Checking the auction sheets, I see that someone bid three hundred dollars for Grandpa’s services. I can’t wait to tell him. And even Kitsy’s ten Sonic Blasts are going for over a hundred dollars, way more than the actual retail price.

Once the bidding slows down, I announce “Five more minutes” over the megaphone. A few people return and put in final bids.

Reading off the sheets, I ask the winners to meet up after the auction to pay and collect their prizes. I really like using the megaphone. Shocking, I know. Totaling everything up, we made way more money than I expected. It’s not pre-recession Barneys shopping money, but it’ll certainly pay for some of the equipment Ginger needs.

I run over to where the mutton busters are competing,
hoping to catch Kiki, and find Mom and Kitsy watching from the fence.

“Hey, Corinne,” my mom says. “I am impressed. Maybe you’ll go into event planning. I’ve seen million-dollar galas that haven’t run as smoothly as this.”

“Has Kiki gone yet?” I say breathlessly.

“No,” Kitsy says, not taking her eyes off the ring. “He’s next. The record’s at twenty-four seconds.”

Kiki gets onto the sheep; since he’s small, he needs to balance his weight. As the gates open up, the sheep takes off, trying its hardest to throw Kiki from his back. Who knew sheep could buck? For what seems like a lifetime, Kiki holds on, shifting his weight and even hanging off the side. Finally, he drops off onto the ground. The sheep hightails it for the other side of the ring. PETA would definitely not like this.

“Ohmigod,” I say, hugging Kitsy. “That must’ve been like three minutes.”

Kitsy looks down at her personal stopwatch. “Thirty-five seconds. I don’t think anyone will beat it, though, so it might as well be three minutes. He’s going to be psyched. It’s a blue trophy and fifty dollars,” she says.

After we all hug and congratulate Kiki, Mom disappears to go find Ginger. I figure I should find the Wicked Witch of Manhattan. Hopefully, she’s melted. When I approach the T-shirt table, I find no Waverly but rather
Bubby. I look around and notice that Rider and his band are also missing from their area.

“Hey, Manhattan,” Bubby says. “Not bad for your first rodeo. I hope you don’t mind, but I sold most of your T-shirts for you.”

I realize there are only a couple shirts left on the table, and the boxes underneath are empty.

“Where’s Waverly?” I ask, scouting for her among the rodeo crowd.

“She doesn’t exactly have the best work ethic,” Bubby says. “She and Rider ran off like the dogs were after them. So I took over. You should have asked me to sell these since I am a local celebrity. I thought a city girl like you would know the power of a celebrity endorsement.”

Like the dogs were after them? I am never going to get Texan language down.

Shaking my head, I laugh. “Thanks, Bubby,” I say. “Waverly’s visit hasn’t turned out exactly like I hoped. I should’ve expected she’d bolt.” And then I realize that Bubby’s managed to pull a T-shirt over his jersey. It’s way too tight, but it’s probably the cutest I’ve seen him looking.

“Take the T-shirt for free,” I say. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Oh, I could think of some other things that you could do,” Bubby says, and raises his eyebrows. “Go enjoy your rodeo. I still have the last T-shirts to sell. And Manhattan,
it was awfully nice of you to do that auction.”

“Thanks,” I say, and head toward the Rodeo Queen competition, where I find Rider and Waverly talking against the fence. Rider’s head is tipped toward Waverly’s, and he’s brushing a hair out of her face. Really, people? This is a rodeo, not a bedroom.

“Hi,
y’all
,” I say, coming up right in between them. Rider immediately drops his hand.

“You know, Rider,” I say, “I am not sure that Ginger’s paying you to take breaks.” Rider gets flushed and walks away without saying anything.

“Nice one,” I say to Waverly, shaking my head. “Apparently, you don’t want me to even have the one hot thing in Texas.”

“Please,” Waverly says, avoiding my eyes, “Rider’s a total douche. He was just asking me about music contacts. And he’s not that hot. Texas is just going to your brain.”

Kitsy bounds up at this moment and grabs my hand. “Did you hear?” she asks. “Your mom’s going to ride in an exhibition and then crown the new rodeo queen.”

“What?” I squeal. I grab Waverly’s hand and almost forget about her flirting with and nearly kissing Rider. “This we need to see,” I say, and I drag her to the fence where Grandma, Grandpa, and Tripp are standing.

“Did you know about this?” I ask my grandparents. Still in shock, I watch my mom, in a bedazzled rodeo
queen shirt complete with a Miss Rodeo Queen 1985 sash, get up and mount a horse—Smudge, to be exact.