Where I Belong by Gwendolyn Heasley

look good on a woman. My parents didn’t live through the Depression to see my grandchild choose skinny as a fashion statement.”
    I want to tell Grandma that the ten extra pounds on her hips don’t exactly work with designer sizes, but I am pretty sure that comment might morph Grandma into a Furious Franny.
    Grandma takes out Wonder white bread. The lasttime I ate white bread I was in elementary school. It’s like Mayor Bloomberg outlawed it along with the trans-fats. Grandma toasts, butters, and then peanut butters the bread. The sandwich gives my mouth the same tingles that the pancakes did. If only Grandma could find a little style, she could get her own Food Network show and get out of this town.
    “How come my mom doesn’t know how to cook, Grandma? Why didn’t you teach her?” Tripp asks, and I can tell by my grandma’s eyes that he’s walking into a landmine.
    “Some people just don’t want to learn, Tripp. Do you and Corrinne want to see how to make Cowboy Cinnamon Bread?” Grandma pulls out a bowl and violently cracks four eggs into it.
    “Yup,” Tripp says, and moves closer to watch.
    “And how was your first day of school, Tripp?” Grandma asks.
    “Great. The kids are pretty cool. I need to get some cowboy boots. I was the only person in Top-Siders, so I felt lame.”
    “Don’t let anyone judge you by your shoes, Tripp,” Grandma says, which I think is hysterical. Grandma probably doesn’t even know what Top-Siders are or how much they cost. But I guess there’s no need for boat shoes in a desert.
    I really don’t want to help Grandma bake, but I alsodon’t have much homework, there’s no cable, and calling Waverly will make me more depressed. She’s in the Hamptons, and I am in hell. What would I even say about the first day of school? Imagine a horror movie merged with a reality show. And everyone survives, which makes it even scarier.
    Grandma meticulously pours out four cups of sugar.
    “So what exactly is Cowboy Cinnamon Bread besides a heart attack in loaf form?” I ask, watching her.
    “Cowboy Cinnamon Bread is like a cinnamon bun, but it’s bread. Toss in a few raisins and walnuts, and smother on a sugar glaze, and you’d think it’s sent by the cherubs,” Grandma says, licking the sugar off her finger. “Each lady in the office brings a treat one day of the week. I’m Tuesdays—used to be Thursdays, but then Dot retired and I switched to Tuesdays.”
    I can’t imagine how women can eat like this every day. My friends’ moms pride themselves on not eating. Waverly’s mom is a big-time magazine editor at a food magazine, and she still looks like a toothpick with a head. The entire staff draws straws when someone has to go to a tasting for a recipe because no one wants to go. Everyone’s that scared of getting fat. It’s because staying skinny is a sport in New York. Apparently in Broken Spoke, baking yourself fat is the sport of choice—after football, of course.
    “You don’t need to help if you don’t want to,” Grandmasays. “I bet you have a lot of homework.” I don’t, but I figure Grandma must not want me around.
     
    Since I got here, Grandma has been on me to unpack. “Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt,” she keeps saying. In my room I finally decide to hang up my clothes. Not because I am staying in Texas, but because I don’t want my clothes to become permanently wrinkled. Back in New York, we had Maria, our housekeeper, to do this, but I might as well get used to it since there are no maids at Kent, so this will be good practice. Opening the so-called closet, I notice a box on the top shelf. It’s all taped up and labeled STUFF I DON’T NEED .
    I am a total snoop. I have been one ever since I found my Christmas gifts from Santa hidden in the oven. So the snoop in me thinks, Why not open the box?
    Carefully, I rip off the tape. Inside the box, there are three folders, one red, one blue, and one yellow. They’re pretty faded, so I imagine