Read Online Where I Belong by Gwendolyn Heasley - Free Book Online Page A

Mockingbird cupcakes beat out any of New York’s famous Magnolia Bakery cupcakes: Each is a perfectly moist red velvet cake with a tiny lifelike mockingbird shaped out of mascarpone perched on top. Grandma has baked enough for the whole town and probably the rival town’s team, the Bolston Bluebonnets, as well.
    When we arrive at the game two hours before it’s actually going to start, the entire parking lot’s filled with people. It looks like a gray sea. Everywhere people are wandering around the parking lot, and every car’s trunk is open and every pickup’s tailgate is down. There are enough portable grills and coolers to feed and quench the entire state of Texas, the second largest state in America, mind you.
    Tripp squeals, “Tailgating—just like on TV. Awesome. Dad promised to take me to a Jets game to tailgate even though he hates football, but, you know, work came up. This is way cooler than I thought.”
    Grandpa pulls into one of the last empty spots. Jumping out, Tripp hollers back to us, “Got to go find myfriends. See you after the game.”
    Ah, so this is tailgating. The all-American ritual of hanging out in parking lots and eating unidentifiable grilled meats out of pickup trucks. In the city, we would never do this because we use cars to get from place to place, not as party furniture. The whole scene seems rather disgusting, and I hope that it forces me to lose my growing appetite.
    I am relieved to see that the young people dress up somewhat for the event. Getting ready, I worried that my outfit—a soft gray linen dress with a pink cardigan—might be too extreme. Because I lack pride or any feelings other than hatred toward Broken Spoke, I had no desire to wear gray. But ultimately I decided there’s no use in sticking out more than I already do, so I wore it anyway.
    I need to iPhone this tailgate scene to my father in Dubai. Seeing me here might change his attitude. He says football is for meatheads; real gentlemen golf and play polo, games of skill, not brute force. I don’t exactly agree, but I am willing to use anything to my advantage. Of course, the eight-hour time difference is making it a bit difficult to get ahold of him.
    Since Tripp galloped off with his friends, I am left with Grandma, Grandpa, and their group of friends, which appears to include the entire town.
    Grandma pulls me up to a large group of ladies wearing Mockingbird gear.

    “Here, have a cupcake,” Grandma says, and hands them out to the group. “I just know how y’all have been waiting for one. And this, this is my granddaughter, Corrinne. She’s enrolled at Broken Spoke this fall. And her little brother, Tripp, is at the middle school. He bounded off with his new best friends. You’ll recognize him; he’s the one who looks like he belongs in a cereal commercial.”
    The entire group’s eyes get big, almost in unison.
    “Jenny Jo’s daughter?” someone mutters in my direction.
    “Last time I saw her was in People magazine at some gala,” another one remarks.
    “She’s the one that got away,” laments another.
    “How is she?” one lady asks, and looks in my direction.
    I don’t know how to answer, so I just raise my shoulders and say, “You can ask her yourself; she’ll probably be here in a few weeks.”
    And then the group chuckles, and again it is almost synchronized. Creepy.
    “No way, Jenny Jo’s not coming back to Broken Spoke ever,” replies a heavyset lady wearing a red sweatshirt with a gray sequin mockingbird patched on.
    I want to tell this woman that this is the fall of surprises. And if Corrinne is here in the Spoke, Jenny Jo better show up too.

    At this point, Grandpa approaches the group, puts his arms around my shoulders, and saves me.
    “How about we go taste some of Broken Spoke’s finest BBQ?” he says, steering me away from the Gossiping Grannies.
    And as we leave the group, I can hear my grandma yakking about recession this, recession that, and yes, twenty years is a