Where I Belong by Gwendolyn Heasley Page B

and even had a GPS detector put in her phone. If she never got her own cell phone, her parents were going to ruin her life.
    “It’s a job with horses,” Grandpa interjects as he turns the TV volume down. “We know how much you miss your horse. You’ve got his picture plastered all over your room like he’s a movie star.”
    “Sweetbread is a she,” I whisper. “Thanks for the concern, but I don’t want a job even with horses—unless it’s my horse and it’s in Connecticut.” Saying Sweetbread’s name loudly would cause a breakdown of epic proportions.
    Grandma stops her sugar dousing. “Corrinne, I know your parents let you do pretty much whatever you want, but in this house you will do as we say. We’re in charge here.”
    She takes a step closer to me and locks eyes with me. “So you will be helping out at Ginger’s stables, and you will start Monday. Otherwise, you’ll be grounded.”
    “Grounded from what?” I challenge as I inch toward her. “You mean I won’t be able to see my totally awesome Broken Spoke friends and go to happy hour at Sonic?Being grounded sounds just fine. This whole place is a prison; I might as well just stay in my cell.”
    “You are being dramatic, Corrinne,” Grandpa says, and stands up from the couch. “Maybe this winter you’ll try theater, but this fall you will try working at Ginger’s. Your momma used to ride there.”
    “I think cleaning stalls and shoveling manure might do you some good,” Grandma says, and turns her back to me. “You’ll build some muscles and maybe even some character while you are at it.”
    “Shoveling manure? Don’t they have stable hands that do that?” I spit.
    Grandma spins around. “That’s the job I got you . You are the newest hand. Hope you brought some clothes that you can get dirty in.”
    Without another word, I hightail it to my room. I slam the door extra hard to make sure even my grandparents, with their declining hearing, can feel the vibrations of my anger. Shoveling manure? Sick. While I am not afraid of getting manure on my boots now and again, I—okay, my parents—pay people to shovel Sweetbread’s manure. I don’t shovel other people’s horses’ poop for a few dollars. This is not happening. Isn’t there, like, a hoof and foot disease I could catch?
    I lie back on my bed. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t get back to B.R. even in my daydreams.

Chapter 7
    This Is My First Rodeo
    I SPEND S UNDAY IN BED . Grandpa brings me in trays of food and laughs at his own room-service jokes.
    “Room service here,” Grandpa says. “Is this like the Plaza, Corrinne?” he asks.
    No, I think. Grandma’s food’s way better. But I don’t say it. Even after a day, I am still fuming at Grandma about this job thing. First I am driving. Now I am working. Does she also have me in an arranged marriage that I don’t know about? Am I adopting a child from a foreign nation? She’s got my life on total fast-forward, and I don’t like it. I didn’t plan to work until after college except for some internship where I could somehow still manage a good summer tan.
    After dinner, Grandpa returns to my room to collect my tray.

    “You know that your momma used this same tray when she stayed home from school with a cold. She said she could only eat pancakes; that was the only thing that’d make her feel better. I think that might have been a white lie though, just so she could eat pancakes for dinner.”
    Uncurling myself from the fetal position, I sit up. “I am not sick, Grandpa,” I say. “I am grounded.”
    “There’re a lot of ways to be sick,” Grandpa says as he sits on the corner of my bed. “Homesick is real sickness, sweetie. It’s okay to be sad, but moping doesn’t do anything except make it worse. And you aren’t grounded if you go to your job tomorrow.”
    “There’s no way I am working there,” I say.
    What would I even wear if I were insane enough to do it? I mean, my dressage clothes would be