Gwendolyn Heasley - Where I Belong

Dear Reader,

Have you ever heard of the Butterfly Effect? I learned about it in science class last year. Probably the only lesson I remember because its way more relevant to real life than the three types of sediment rock or the properties of noble gases. And its also not revolting, like dissecting a frog. Basically, the butterfly effect is a chaos theory, attributed to a guy named Edward Lorenz. Heres the CliffsNotes version: A butterfly flaps its wings in Brazil, and it sets off a tornado in Texas. It means the smallest moments of the past, even the ones that dont have anything to do with us, affect our future and our future selves.

When Wall Street nearly collapsed, I didnt pay much attention. I used to care a lot more about the hottest starlets weight fluctuation than the current prices of stocks. But when the economic problems caused my dad to lose his seven-figure job and me to move to a Texan town thats so teeny tiny its not even on Google Maps, I realized how seemingly distant events can change your life forever.

This is the story of how I was transformed. How the pieces of the global economy toppled like dominoes and made a teenage ice princess from Manhattan (me) melt and find her long-dislocated heart. So if you hate me at first, keep reading. You might just surprise yourself. I know I did.

And just think, somewhere right now a butterfly might be flapping its wings and altering your future in some peculiar, yet beautiful way.

Sincerely,
Corrinne Corcoran

M Y I P HONE LOUDLY SINGS A LITTLE DITTY .

She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes.

The Barneys saleswoman, dressed in a hideous avocado green dress, gives me a look of disgust. Maybe she doesnt like Paul Simons music. Stupid, its a classic, and I dont have to change my ring tone each time Lady Gaga makes a costume change. Have you ever been to a party where twelve people have the same ring tone? So pathetic, its almost as bad as two girls having the same signature scent.

From a distance, I am pretty sure the avocado lady is rolling her eyes: Maybe shes one of those people who dont believe in using cell phones in public? Please, isnt that why they were invented? To make us mobile? And look around, Miss Barneys employee; I am the only customer on floor three, the designer collection department. It appears that whole recession thingamajig scared everyone else away.

She keeps staring at me, and I know it isnt my clothes: I am wearing an Alice and Olivia summer white dress and Jimmy Choo pink heels with my mousy brown hair slicked back. And shes the same shopgirl who still hasnt brought me the pair of Hudson jeans that I asked for more than twenty minutes ago. Shes probably ignoring me because I am a teenager. I just hate age discrimination, but I still refuse to shop in Juniors. First of all, I am a size five in Juniors and only a size four in Womens. Second of all, most of the clothing in Juniors is cheap. I might be only sixteen years old, but I own plastic. That should count for something. The saleslady keeps on glaring at me like its a new pastime, so I finally silence my phone. Its my mother anyway, and I dont want to talk to her.

I dont want to talk to anyone. I shop alone. Sure, Ill occasionally have lunch with friends at Freds, the restaurant at Barneys. And Ill be sociable and make a courtesy loop or two of the store afterward, but I wont wardrobe (aka power shop) with them. Theyll either move too slowly or claim they spotted that yellow eyelet Milly dress first. And right now, I am shopping for my first year at boarding school. This is serious. There are no Barneys in the middle of Connecticut, and online shopping should always be a last resort. And of course I dont do malls on principle.

When Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes booms in once more, I silence it again. I mean, really, Mom? We just spent the first two weeks of August in Nantucket, and I have less than three weeks before I need to leave for Kent, my new boarding school. I havent even finalized my bedding and drapery because Kent has yet to tell Waverly, my best friend, and me if we are permitted to be roommates. Having never shared a room before, I totally tried to finagle a private room by lying and saying that I have a serious snoring issue. But the dean of students said all roommates have to work out differences and mine will just need to wear earplugs or Ill have to wear one of those nose strips. Since a private room isnt going to happen, bunking with Waverly is a better option than some foreign exchange student who doesnt shower daily.

Moving over to accessories, I model shades in the tiny mirror. After trying to remember if I have the tortoiseshell Ray-Bans at home or if I just have the white, the black, and the neon pink, I decide to buy the tortoiseshell ones just in case. I should look at round Jackie-O glasses, too, because I totally hear theyre having a revival.

Bing! bounces from inside my neon blue Marc Jacobs purse.

A text message from her. Thats how I put my mom into my phone. Funny, right?

Her: Family meeting, 7 pm, get home

Its six, and I am supposed to do seven thirty sushi with the girls at a BYOB (bring your own bottle) restaurant in the East Village. My friend Saritas older brother taught us to frequent BYOBs, so we dont get our fakes swiped because when you bring your own booze, the restaurants dont even card. I guess Ill have to be a little late to my friends dinner since Ill need to swing by home.

I text her back.

Corrinne: Fine. The meeting better last only nanoseconds. I got plans.

I bring my purchasestwo pairs of Notify jeans, the tortoiseshell Ray-Bans (why not?), and the orange Tory Burch flatsto the counter where Little Miss Bitter Saleswoman sits perched.

Id like those Hudsons I asked for, I try to gently remind her how to do her job.

The saleswoman huffs off to find my jeans. After she packages up everything into two Barneys white and black logoed bags, I decide that I am definitely cabbing it. Those bags look heavy! And August in New York is too hot for the subway. Even though I could use the subway-stair exercise since I didnt ride or go to the gym today, I simply cant bear the thought of descending into hot, crowded mugginess. And especially not on a weekday: there are too many sweaty worker bees in tacky, cheap suits.

After I catch a cab outside, I text Waverly and tell her that I might be late.

Waverly: Dont B 2 late, we might drink all the vino.

And its never fun 2 B the sober kid.

I want to call Waverly and say there had better be wine left when I arrive, but the cabbies blasting the radio news. All I hear is layoffs this, layoffs that, another Ponzi scheme. Gross. I am sick of all this bad economic news, and it doesnt even make any sense. Our math teacher, Mrs. DeBord, tried to explain last year when things got really bad: something about defaults, mortgages, shorts. I definitely didnt get it. But hey, I dont even understand algebra. Letters for numbers, really? We might as well learn hieroglyphics. At Kent, I am going to need a math tutor if I want to get into the Ivies. And I for sure want to get into the Ivies because thats where the boys are not only cute but smart and rich.

When the recession first began last year, some kids parents had to pull them out of school. But its hard to tell who left because of money fiascos and who left for other reasons, like rehab and divorce. Thank God my dad made it through all the layoffs, and he even still got his bonus. I was scared that it was going to be a paupers Christmas like Tiny Tim had in A Christmas Carol , but everything I asked for, all four pages (single spaced), sat right under the tree.

The cabbie pulls up to my building at Morton Street and the West Side Highway. I bound out of the cab, buzz to open the gate, and jog up to the marble front desk.