Free Where I Belong by Gwendolyn Heasley

drinking, Corrinne,” Grandma yells.
    I say nothing. Actually, I have said nothing during this exchange, and now Kitsy’s dragging me by the hand toward a very tall football player with reddish hair and his perfectly waxed banana yellow two-door pickup truck. I wonder what his truck is named. Yellow Submarine?
    “I’m Hands, Kitsy’s boyfriend,” he says. “You must be Corrinne. Kitsy keeps yapping about you. ‘ Hands, there’s a new girl from New York City. Hands , she’s like a real-life Gossip Girl . Hands , I want to be her friend.’ Kitsy’s seriously obsessed with all things New York, including you.”
    And then he extends his hand, still sweaty from the game, and I suddenly understand the name: His right hand alone is the size of a large pizza pie.
    Hands opens the door for me, which is something Grandpa always does too.

    “Let’s get wasted,” Kitsy says, and jumps in after me. “You drink, right?”
    Wow, I thought Kitsy was a front-row do-gooder. At least it turns out the one person who likes me in Texas takes me to parties rather than study groups.
    Driving down dirt road after dirt road, I can barely believe that this is still Broken Spoke. And my bladder keeps jiggling. There’d better be a bathroom when we get there. Or maybe a magical Starbucks will pop up out of nowhere; they always have bathrooms.
    Finally, Hands turns on his high beams as he pulls into a field where a bonfire is raging and about half a dozen trucks are already parked. Not another tailgate. And there’s not even a Porta-Potty in sight.
    “Is this like the pre-party before the house party?” I ask Kitsy. “I really have to go to the bathroom,” I whisper.
    Kitsy moves her index finger in a circle. “ This is the party,” she says.
    I try not to let my mouth gape open.
    “Not to worry, I always carry TP in my purse,” Kitsy says.
    “TP?” I ask as Kitsy starts digging around in her bag.
    “Toilet paper,” she says as she hands me a wad. “I’ll take you to the woods.”
    Woods? I am not about to pee on my satin heels; they cost four hundred dollars, and I don’t know when I can getanother pair. They sold out within hours of going on sale.
    “Don’t worry, Corrinne,” she says, catching me staring at my shoes. “I’ll show you the cowgirl method.”
    I look down at my iPhone: no service. I can’t call Waverly, I can’t call Dubai, I can’t call Grandma and Grandpa, and I can’t even call 911. So I guess I will have to pee in the woods, cowgirl style. My parents will have to pay for my hypnosis; I can’t live life with these memories.
    Kitsy takes her pom-poms in one hand, grabs my wrist with the other, and drags me toward the woods. I find out that the cowboy method means throwing one leg on a fallen tree branch and squatting like a ballerina. Hopefully, no one can see the other full moon—mine—in the night sky. But no pee winds up on my heels or my leg, so I guess the method works. This would so get you arrested in the city though!
    “Beer time,” Kitsy says when we reemerge from the woods.
    Beer? Does Kitsy have any idea how many carbs are in that? I can’t handle any more carb overloads after everything I’ve been eating at Grandma’s. But with only kegs in sight, I follow her. Bubby is filling up red plastic cups.
    “Manhattan,” Bubby says. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. I thought you’d have some private jet waiting to whisk you to the Hamptons for a white party.”
    “I summer in Nantucket,” I correct him. “Anyway, it’snow totally acceptable to wear white after Labor Day, so white parties are kind of over.”
    “What’s a Nantucket?” Kitsy wants to know.
    Bubby hands me a cup with no foam. Apparently, he’s done this keg thing before.
    “Nantucket’s an island for rich people, Kitsy. So Manhattan, what’s a girl like you doing in Texas? Is this like rehab for you?” Bubby says.
    I gulp down the beer. It tasks like urine, which is just perfect since I probably