Where I Belong by Gwendolyn Heasley Page B

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,