Grandpa heaves Waverly’s luggage into the truck’s flatbed while I reassure her that it’ll be just fine back there. She hops in the middle between Grandpa and me. Before I pull away, Waverly squeals, “Ohmigosh, I’ve got to take a picture. I always thought I’d be the first to drive. My dad even said that he’d get me a car next summer to practice on Nantucket, but that’s months away. And here you are driving in a foreign state. I can’t believe this is happening.”
And for a second, I can’t either.
Grandpa takes over driving after half an hour. Waverly pesters me with questions about what driving is like, what it feels like. I am happy that she’s intrigued, but it worries me what she’s going to think of Broken Spoke if she’s this freaked out about me driving.
I tell Grandpa that we’ll give Waverly the tour of Broken Spoke in the morning. To be a Forthcoming Frances: I am buying some time before she sees the strip and how little Broken Spoke has to offer. When we show up at the grandparents’, Tripp is waiting at the front door. He races to the car the second we hit the driveway and opens Waverly’s door.
“Waverly!” he says. “How are you?”
Waverly tussles his hair. Waverly will flirt with any age, and Tripp harbors a major crush.
“Are you so excited for the rodeo?” Tripp asks Waverly.
Waverly looks at me, puzzled. “What rodeo, Tripp?”
“Oh,” I interrupt before Tripp can say anything more. “That’s the event I told you about. It’s a rodeo.”
Waverly takes a deep breath and follows Tripp to the front door.
“I wish that you were more specific, Corrinne, because I did not pack for a rodeo. Cashmere blends with Navajo influences aren’t exactly what I imagine one wears to a rodeo,” Waverly says.
“I am sorry,” I apologize, “I figured you’d realize that Broken Spoke, Texas, is a bit more casual than the grassy Kent quad.”
Waverly gives me a how-would-I-know-anything-about-a-place-like-this look, and then continues. “Don’t people wear, like, those leg pads and spikes on their boots? We need to go shopping so I can get some. Number one pet peeve: being fashionably unprepared. You know this, Corrinne.”
Timidly, I follow a few steps behind her.
“Those leg pads and spikes are called chaps and spurs. And you don’t need to wear them unless you are an actual cowboy. Anyways, it’s not just a rodeo,” I say quietly, feeling like my worst fears are happening. “And I actually have a T-shirt for you to wear. It’s blue and brown, your favorite colors.”
“T-shirt?” Waverly stops and looks back at me. “Like what you wear to bed when you are alone?”
Luckily, my mom steps outside, interrupts this awkward moment, and kisses Waverly on both cheeks.
“Waverly,” she says, ushering her into the house, “I am so glad that you are here.”
I turn and watch Waverly as she takes in the surroundings with big bug eyes. My grandparents’ house, which had started to feel cozy, is back to feeling cramped. I wish I had convinced my mom to hide just a few of the knick-knacks, especially the pillow that says, “A house is made of wood and beams, a home is built with love and dreams.” I can already hear Waverly making fun of that one back with our old friends.
My mom continues, seemingly oblivious to Waverly’s shock. “We’ve got dinner on the stove and candy in the cabinets. My mother and I just finished baking pumpkin chocolate chip bread.”
Waverly blinks three times fast and regains her manners. “Thanks, Mrs. Corcoran,” she says. “I never knew you were a baker.”
“She’s not,” Grandma pipes in. My mom’s face drops, but Grandma goes over and gives my mom a friendly squeeze.
Admiring the bread, Waverly shakes her head. “I am actually on a diet. Dorm food is the worst; it’s totally fattening. Corrinne should at least be happy about missing out on that,” she says.
Like a knife to my stomach, Waverly’s comment settles into my gut. Oh yes, Waverly’s here because I am now in Texas instead of at Kent. And she’s about to see just how far Broken Spoke is from everything we ever knew.
“You might change your mind about the diet once you taste Grandma’s food,” Tripp pipes up. He’s already seated at the kitchen table.
“Corrinne loves to eat now. No more miso soup for her.” Tripp shakes his sandy hair.
Grandma brings over the steaks from the stove to the table. Waverly looks horrified by the generous slabs of meat, but she pulls up a chair next to Tripp and sits down.
“I thought that you went vegan,” Waverly states. “And you look so thin.”
Sitting down next to Waverly, I am not sure if I should tell her my next atomic bomb: I have a job doing physical labor. So I decide to keep that one to myself.
“So what’s boarding school like?” Grandma asks.
“Hard,” Waverly says. “It’s way more competitive than Corrinne’s and my old school.” Waverly picks at her food with her fork and looks at me. “You are almost lucky to get to go to public school.”
“Lucky?” I question back, but my mom gives me a look that says, Don’t launch into a poor-me tirade at the dinner table.
“Do you have nice friends?” my grandpa asks.
“They’re okay,” Waverly says. “My roommate’s a model, which isn’t good for my self-esteem. It would have been better for my ego if Corrinne and I could have roomed together.”
“Excuse me?” I say, unable to filter. While I may not be a Russian model, I don’t want to think that my appearance feeds others’ egos—especially not my so-called best friend.
“I mean, we’ve known each other forever,” Waverly says. “So you don’t intimidate me and you haven’t been in magazines. That’s all I mean. Really.”
I give Waverly a look but decide to drop the thread. No use making this trip any more difficult.
“Any good stories?” my mom chimes in.
“Nope,” Waverly says, and looks down at her plate.
C’mon, Waverly, I think. Give us a bone here. I know this isn’t the most glamorous dinner ever, but you could at least try at conversation.
“You are going to love it here,” Tripp says. “And the rodeo’s going to be awesome.”
“I am sure it’s a nice place,” Waverly says. “It’s kind of cool to go somewhere that no one else knows exists, like the Maldives before the celebrity invasion. Well, kind of like that, except Broken Spoke isn’t tropical or elite,” she says.
And by the way Waverly says cool, I know it’s going to be a long weekend.
By the time we clear the table, I just want to go to bed and pretend this has all been a bad dream. And I haven’t even started to tell Waverly about what a rodeo entails.
When Waverly yawns very loudly after turning down a Hello Dolly! bar, I am happy to suggest that we just have girl time in my room. I grab a bag of candy from the shelves and drag Waverly’s mammoth bags into my tiny room.
“So you sleep here with your mom?” Waverly asks, looking at the full-size bed. “This room is much smaller than Vladlena’s and my dorm room. Did I tell you that my mom sent in her interior designer? She did the room in fuchsia, which actually turned out great.”
“I thought you hated pink,” I said, flopping down on the bed with the bag of candy. Even if Waverly didn’t want to emotionally eat, I did.
Waverly stretches out beside me.
“Fuchsia is not exactly pink,” she argues. “So tell me more about this Rider kid whose picture you sent me.”
I had emailed Waverly the hottest band picture of Rider in hopes of making her jealous. I am pleased to see at least something is working according to my plans.
“It’s still going,” I lie, and unravel another mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. “He’s playing at the rodeo tomorrow. You’ll get to meet him. He, like, zones out with the music.”
Hopefully, Waverly will mistake Rider’s zoning out for his love of music rather than what I now perceive as the devastating truth: He’s just not that into me.
“I am excited for you, Corrinne,” she says, watching me unpeel another candy. “You’ve been such a good sport and have such a great attitude. All everyone does now is bitch about the recession. Here you are in the worst situation ever, and you are doing a great job staying positive,” she says.
The way Waverly says the worst situation ever makes me want to gag. Of course, she’s right, but I just don’t like how she rubs it in.
“Tell me about Kent,” I say between bites. I don’t really want to know about it, but I want to put the attention off of my Broken Spoke misery. “I think I’ll be able to come for winter semester,” I lie again.
“Usually, they don’t let in transfers in the winter,” Waverly says, getting her silk pajamas out of her bag. “But maybe because of your circumstances, they’ll change their mind. Kent’s fine, though. Smith’s hot. School’s hard. End of story. Do you mind if we go to bed now? The time change has me exhausted,” Waverly says, and does a dramatic yawn.
Even though it’s not even ten o’clock and it’s only a one-hour time change, I still agree. And unlike old times, Waverly and I don’t fall asleep talking and giggling until we can’t keep our eyes open. I go to bed with the certain knowledge that the only thing worse than today will be tomorrow.
Chapter 14
Not Unless There’s a Helicopter to New York in It
I WAKE UP DREADING THE DAY AHEAD. Luckily Waverly’s still sound asleep, so I tiptoe into the kitchen. Grandma’s already whipping up two stacks of pancakes.
“Sleep well, darling?” she asks. “I saw the rodeo program on the table, and it’s terrific. You really have a talent for design. That one for mutton busting is adorable.”
Wow, Grandma and I are having a bonding moment. The front door opens, and Grandpa and Mom walk inside. They are carrying three take-out cups from the supermarket.
“We got some coffees,” Grandpa says. “We thought today might be a good day to break the caffeine rule. Of course, Grandma and me ain’t going to drink them. Why start a bad habit now? But we thought you city girls might like them.”
Mom sets the cups down on the table. “The town’s a-buzzing about your rodeo, Corrinne. Everyone’s excited about the auction, and I already see some out-of-towners making their way in.”
I want to get excited, but all I can think about is the sleeping city princess in the other room.
“I am just glad that it was planned for Saturday,” Grandpa says, picking a pancake off a stack and eating it with his hands. “This way no one has to choose between the rodeo and football. Will that friend of yours Bubby be there?”
“Bubby is not my friend,” I say, picking up one of the forbidden coffees. “Bubby—good ole Dusty’s son by the way, Mom—Bubby is just always around like a fly. If only I could find a flyswatter big enough…”
And as I say this, Waverly emerges from my room, wearing a robe over her silk pajamas. “Who’s Bubby and who’s Dusty?” Waverly says, rubbing her eyes. “Are they horses in the rodeo?”
Mom gets red and Grandpa, Grandma, and I laugh.
“You’ll see today at the rodeo, Waverly,” I say.
Waverly spies the coffee, takes one, and says, “I think there’s a lot I still have to learn about Texas.”
Waverly is less than thrilled to wear a T-shirt.
“I mean, they are cute, but isn’t this rodeo a big deal? I think we should dress up; we can wear the T-shirts underneath something cuter. We’ll still technically be wearing them; that counts, right? And what type of media will be there? You know Kent has a few kids from big Dallas oil money families, and I don’t want to show up in some Texan publication in a T-shirt.”
“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.
Where I Belong Page 16