A Long Way From You (12 page)

“Are you worried about her?” I ask, gripping the phone.

“Nope. She’s the same as always,” Kiki says.

Which is exactly what I was afraid of. I know you shouldn’t expect people to just change, but I’ll admit I sure was hoping for it.

“Come home soon,” Kiki says with a yawn.

“Go to sleep now, Kiki,” I instruct. “Remember we’re looking at the same stars.”

After putting away my phone, I rest my head on the window. Looking up, I only see buildings with tiny cracks of night sky. I still can’t find any stars, and I feel farther from home than ever, which feels comforting and scary at the same time.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: Wednesday July 18

Subject: I need an update!

So what’s the story? My best friend is in the greatest city in the world and I haven’t heard from her in days. Tell me about one of your NYC adventures! I’m nearing emotional and physical fatigue with nature. My nails don’t do well with dirt. In good news, I was elected green team captain for our color war. In bad news, I need to wear head to toe kelly green. I look like a leprechaun-ette. Give me some gossip, Kits.

Chapter 7
Just a Small-Town Girl

T
HE REST OF MY FIRST
week feels like déjà vu of my first two days. On Wednesday, Professor Picasso knocked the simplicity of my figurative sketch, so again I spent hours that night studying famous nude paintings just to have him say on Thursday: “This figurative drawing loses its focus on the subject; the model becomes secondary to Kitsy’s style, which doesn’t feel authentic.”

On Friday, I go in with a new attitude: I’m just here to draw what I see. As Professor Picasso comes around to collect the day’s sketches, Ford, who has striped navy frames on today, hums the theme from
The Twilight Zone
in my ear. I let myself laugh.

Professor Picasso looks at his figurative drawing. “Ford, you’re exaggerating features in an attempt to get away from drawing the details. That’s lazy. Don’t do it.”

Ford shrugs and then gives my knee a squeeze when Professor Picasso reaches for what I think is my best sketch.

After looking at it for a minute, he says, “I actually see a little bit of Kitsy here.” My heart lifts like an air balloon. I feel the most encouraged I’ve been since starting art class.

I smile and feel a soft kick on the back of my chair. I turn around to see Iona giving me the thumbs-up. She sure is difficult to figure out.

As Professor Picasso stacks the sketches, he makes an announcement:

“We’re having an end-of-the-term exhibition. I’ll send out formal invitations to your local mailing address, but also bring your friends, bring your family . . . bring any warm bodies. Not to worry you, but there’ll be art critics, art dealers, and art college representatives. No pressure though,” he says with a snort.

I feel a tiny prick in my air balloon heart. Critics? What if I’m the sad, lonely girl standing by her “art” while the Important New York People say, “What happened to this program? I thought it was selective.” Then again, I’ve had my share of critics, and I’ve always come out swinging. Here’s to you, Peggy.

The upside to this is that I don’t have to worry about Amber being there. Not that I have ever been to a real art show, but the ones in movies usually have free wine. And a drunk Amber is the only thing that could make my future vision of the exhibition worse. She’d probably spill a drink on some girl like Iona.

When we’re leaving class, Ford stops me and says, “Hey, Kitsy, want to go to the rooftop at the Metropolitan Museum of Art? Every summer, the Met’s rooftop garden has a solo exhibition. My boyfriend and I always try to go as many times as we can while the weather’s nice. I’ve been telling him all about Kitsy Kidd from Broken Spoke. He’s dying to meet you!”

“I’d love to . . . ,” I say and trail off. I promised myself that I’d spend tonight catching up with Kiki and Hands and working on my sketches. “I have another commitment, but let’s hang out soon.”

“For sure,” Ford says with a wave.

When I get to the Corcorans’, no one is home. The Corcorans went to Nantucket this weekend and invited me to join them, but I thought it would be too weird. Two parents plus their daughter’s Texan best friend? It’s been six years since I have been in a two-parent family, and I’m not sure I’m ready to be the plus one to the Corcorans. Besides, I don’t want them to spend one more dime on me than they already are, so I told them that I’m swamped with homework. Even though I insisted I’d be fine alone, Mrs. Corcoran asked Maria, their housekeeper, to sleep at the apartment. For the first time in about ten years, I have a babysitter. I’m relieved she’s not there when I get home.

I download Skype on Corrinne’s old computer, something I’ve been promising Hands I’d do for a week. Since I planned on staying home tonight, I told him earlier to meet me online after his practice ended.

Dialing up QBSTATECHAMP, Hands’s online moniker, I adjust my screen so Hands can’t see into the Corcorans’ apartment. I don’t want our worlds to feel any farther away than they are.

Hands, wearing his practice jersey and sweaty from an afternoon practice, pops up in a window on Corrinne’s Apple computer.

“You got even prettier,” Hands says as I push some ringlets out of my face.

“Ohmigosh, Hands!” I exclaim. “Today, I think my professor almost complimented me, and this guy from class invited me to go to a show on the rooftop of a museum. Everything is so amazing here. I mean, there are moments that are hard but being here in general makes up for those.”

“What?” Hands interrupts, his face falling. “What guy?”

“He’s gay,” I say. “But, Hands, that shouldn’t matter. The whole reason I came here was to study art and meet people who I have something in common with.”

I see Hands wince and take a deep breath.

“Kitsy, are you saying . . . that we don’t have anything in common? We’ve dated for six years. I know you better than anyone. We’re a team—like a QB and center,” Hands says.

Hands is right. In the Spoke, he does know me better than anyone. But there are people here, including me, who want to know Kitsy as an artist and that’s something I’ve never experienced. How do I get Hands to understand that I want to grow?

The silence hangs in the air. Even though we’re looking directly at each other’s image, Hands seems farther away than he did on the phone. Maybe this whole Skyping thing was a bad idea.

His lips tighten, something I usually only see if he messes up a big play. “I should go. I guess this is interfering with your art schedule.”

“Hands,” I start to say, trying hard not to sound annoyed. “I didn’t mean it like that. I stayed home to talk to you, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t mean to put you out,” he says and he pushes the brim of his baseball cap over his eyes. “I stopped by your house today and tossed the ball with Kiki. I think he misses you almost as much as I do.”

“Thanks, Hands,” I say quietly. I do appreciate Hands and I don’t want to forget that. “I wish I could give you a hug.”

“Me too, Kitsy,” he says. “I like virtual Kitsy but I miss the real thing. Why don’t we talk later? I want you to have a good experience. Besides, all that’s happening here is football practice. Nothing exciting like New York.”

“Are you sure, Hands?” I ask. I do have a book of half-finished sketches.

“I’m sure,” he says, looking somewhere away from the camera. “I love you. O O O.”

“X X X,” I say. “I love you, too. I wish you were here.”

“No, you don’t. This is your summer,” he says and manages to give me a tiny smile.

I shake my head as if to say no, but he’s right. This is my time. Maybe I should’ve gone to the museum. I don’t think this conversation really made me or Hands feel any closer. I give a small wave and blow a kiss before I shut down the computer. Retreating to my room, I spend the night alternately sketching and making a list of all the museums and shows I still want to see in New York.

In the morning, I tie on Corrinne’s pink robe and make my way to the kitchen. At the sink, Maria is gently placing two ice cubes in a pot with only a single tall, green stem growing from it. She’s already dressed for the day, and there’s a small duffel bag at her feet.

“I’m Maria,” she says in perfect lightly accented English. “I got in late last night, and I didn’t want to wake you. Can you believe what I found in the trash room?” she asks, pointing to a potted plant with two bare green stems growing from the soil.

“I’m Kitsy Kidd. It’s so nice to meet you,” I say and firmly shake her hand. “What kind of plant is that?”

“It’s an orchid,” she says, moving it to the windowsill. “Or it was an orchid before someone gave up on it after it stopped blooming. Not everyone knows that often orchids will not bloom for months, and then all of a sudden, they will come back to life. It’s very important to always keep watering them. And remember, they like ice cubes better than water.”

“You must have a green thumb,” I say.

“I did live on a farm in Mexico,” she explains, shifting the pot into direct sunlight. “Getting an orchid to bloom is easy compared to the field work I did growing up.”

“Corrinne always talked about how she missed you when she was in Texas,” I say, thumbing a photo of the Corcorans on the bookshelf.

“She is like my second daughter,” Maria says and blows Corrinne’s image a kiss. “Mrs. Corcoran said you’re the big reason Corrinne came back from Texas with a whole lot less attitude than when she went. I’m looking forward to having you here. It’s lonely without Corrinne and Tripp. I’m heading back home to Coney Island for the day. Do you want to come along?”

“No thanks. I’m going to work on some sketches. And just so you know, I think Corrinne did all of that transforming on her own,” I say. I wonder if I’ll come back from New York changed, too.

“Corrinne’s lucky to have you as a friend. There’s a casserole in the fridge. See you later, Kitsy,” Maria says.

As I flip through the Corcorans’ coffee table books over breakfast, I start to feel uneasy about last night’s Skyping session with Hands. I reach for my phone to call him when it vibrates.

Hi, it’s Tad. Got your number from Rider. What’s a Texan doing on a gorgeous day like this?

Tad, as in the Tad who in a city of millions I’ve run into twice. Tad, the musician with an eye for art. It’s not that I haven’t thought of him because I have. I just never thought he’d bother to call. But I also never thought I’d make it to New York City to take real art classes either.

I text Tad back.

Reading.

My phone buzzes again.

Aren’t you supposed to be doing all the touristy things? This is your first time in New York.

Without thinking about how Tad could interpret it, I type:

Taking the double-decker bus alone isn’t fun.

Especially when you’re saving every penny, I think. Milliseconds later, my phone buzzes again.

Send me your address. I can do better than a double-decker. They’re too much $$.

Think this over, Kitsy: A hot New York rocker guy wants you to send him your address where you’re currently staying alone. No way I can ask Hands or Amber if this is okay because I know their collective answer: No with a capital
N
. Even Courageous Corrinne would probably say no and I wouldn’t tell her because I’m not supposed to be hanging out with Rider or his band mates on Best Friend Principle.

But my fingers text back. After all, he’s one of the only people who I can discuss art with. How can I give up the opportunity? But I know that there’s more than just that. In New York, I can finally be a yes person. In Texas, I’m always saying no on account of being busy with Kiki and Amber.

Me: Morton and Washington.

Tad: See you in 10. I’ll text you when I’m there.

I fly to the bathroom. Do I have enough time to shower? Is showering too much? What if it looks like I’m trying too hard? Wait, I’m not even trying. I have a boyfriend. Tad’s, like, a tour guide.

I throw on a cotton tangerine dress and a pair of old white Converses. Checking myself out, I think my clothes give the appropriate message that reads, “This is not a date. I could be your little sister.”

Zipping my sketchbook into my purse pocket, I tell myself that I’ll do some sketching while I’m out. I promise myself to spend more time on the phone with Hands and Kiki tomorrow. That reminds me I should ask Hands to pick up some more challenging novels for Kiki from the library.

After, I leave a note for Maria that I’m going out with a friend and not to worry if I’m not here when she gets back. I sit impatiently with my legs crossed and try not to watch my phone for Tad’s text. I’m about to go out into New York with a real New Yorker, and I get to wear sneakers. Maybe this will be the summer of my life. Maybe this summer isn’t just about me and my art. Maybe it should be about fun and surprises, too.

“Here, take this,” Tad says, handing me a MetroCard. He’s wearing orange New Balances, a Yankees T-shirt, and a loose-fitting pair of jeans.

“Oh,” I say, its yellow and blue colors flashing me back to the New Jersey incident. “I don’t like the subways much. Did you know they go underwater to other states?”

Tad laughs, shaking his brown hair.

“We’re taking the bus. You just use the same card.”

“The double-decker?” I ask enthusiastically.

“No, the city bus. Here’s a secret, Kitsy. They follow pretty much the same route. We’ll spend our money on other stuff, not buses that charge more because they have two levels and are painted red.”