A Long Way From You (14 page)

Tad walks over to the TV screen and starts flipping through the songs.

“One song, Kitsy,” he says. “That’s all I ask. What will it be? We can do it together.”

“Journey,” I answer.

“Let me guess. ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’?” he asks and raises one eyebrow. “That song has been on at least three TV shows and five commercials in the last week. Have you ever heard the saying that somewhere on any given night, drunk kids are singing this song?”

In the Spoke, it’s a very popular song and gets played at the field all the time. That’s not why I love it though. I like it because it’s about getting away.

I shake my head at Tad. “You said it was lady’s choice,” I argue.

With a smile, Tad finds the song and hands me one of the microphones.

The classic piano beginning starts.

Glancing sideways at me, Tad belts out.

“Just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world, she took the midnight train going anywhere.” He looks to me to sing the next lines.

Does he think of me as a small-town girl?

“Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit, he took the midnight train going anywhere,” I sing. I hope I managed to hit at least one note.

Tad air guitars the instrumental before belting out the chorus. “For a smile, they can share the night. It goes on and on and on.”

We finish the song and I find myself wishing this were my reality, that I could do this every night with Tad, and the most magical day of my life wasn’t almost over. I guess the best days are the ones you aren’t expecting. Sometimes when you stop chasing something, it has a way of finding you.

“What does that song mean to you?” I ask, flopping down on a couch.

Tad comes and sits right next to me.

“Meeting someone who surprises you,” Tad answers without a second thought.

I wonder if he thinks of me as that person.

He shifts to face me on the couch. “What do you think it’s about?” he asks.

“I think it’s about leaving somewhere and finding another place you belong . . . even if it’s just for a night.”

Tad pauses, stretches, lets out a big yawn, and looks down at his watch: “Three in the morning, you definitely shouldn’t be out this late. Hell, I shouldn’t be out this late.”

“That’s not fair,” I argue. “You need to do a solo.”

“Okay,” he concedes. “But you pick it.”

I get up and flip through the index. I stop dead on the word
Mockingbird
.

“That’s my school mascot,” I say. “We do a cheer to this. I want to hear your rendition.”

“That’s a nursery rhyme,” Tad says, looking over my shoulder. “My dad used to sing it to me when I was little.”

My dad sang it, too, I think. This song makes me ache every time I hear it. But unlike a lot of Dad memories, it’s a happy one.

Tad doesn’t protest anymore and presses Play.

“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird,” he croons. And I’m sure that the writer never intended this song to sound so sexy. Tad probably doesn’t either. But it does, and all the hairs on my arm stand straight up.

When he finishes, I realize I haven’t checked my cell phone since this morning. But I make no move to get it from my purse.

“All right, kid,” Tad says, opening the door. “Let’s get you back to your apartment.”

“No,” I protest, a little too quickly. “What about going to a late-night diner? They
always
do that in the movies,” I say, although I’m not hungry in the least.

“How about we walk back?” Tad says. “Slowly. The long way.”

“Okay,” I say, happy to extend the time before we have to say good-bye.

Standing with just Tad on a deserted street, I think about how amazing it is in a city of millions that you can be the only ones on a particular street. If you just stay awake long enough, you can have a bit of the city to yourself and it’s completely worth the wait.

“I hope you know the way. In Broken Spoke, there’s really only one main road. This place is totally catawampus,” I say. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m partially hoping we get lost.

“Catawampus?” Tad repeats and laughs.

“It means crazy in Texan,” I explain.

Looking up at the buildings, Tad says, “I always thought you country folk could read the stars like a map.”

“No way,” I say, looking up to the small cracks of starless sky peeking through the buildings. “I’m not an astronomer, but at least we actually have stars in Texas. Don’t you miss them in the city?” I ask, thinking of Kiki and wondering if he’s still sleeping in my bed under Van Gogh’s stars.

“I’ve always lived here, Kitsy,” he says. “You can’t miss something you’ve never had.”

I disagree one thousand percent because I have missed this—the incredible vastness and variety of a big city—my entire life. I just didn’t know it until now.

Rounding the corner, I see a diner called the Manatus. It has big plastic booths, and the lights are still on. Sonic closes at eleven o’clock on weekends, and that’s the latest
anywhere
stays open in Broken Spoke.

“It’s still open,” I exclaim, peering at a waitress refilling a drink. “Can we go in?”

“I have a better idea,” Tad says, swinging open the door for me. “You go. You have to get used to doing things alone but not feeling lonely. It’s the best part of the city.”

“But, it’s three. How will I get back to the apartment?” I ask.

“It’s five blocks, Kitsy,” Tad says. “If you made it all the way from Broken Spoke to here, you can make it five hundred yards. If you’re scared, you can call me and I’ll stay on the phone the entire walk. Go order some ice cream and make a memory with just yourself.”

So maybe he doesn’t see me as a child. That gives me goose bumps all over.

I follow his instructions, but all I can think about is that I don’t want to make a memory with only myself.

Sliding into a booth alone, I watch Tad leave and disappear down the street. It’s almost light.

I order fries and a chocolate shake to go. While I wait, I look over the other customers: an old man drinking a cup of coffee through a straw, three British tourists slurping milkshakes, and a few college-age guys downing beers and an appetizer sampler. I know the other customers are watching me, too. They probably want to know who I am.

Before New York, everyone always thought they knew my story. Amber’s daughter, what else was there to say? And, in Texas, it would be me on the other side of the counter serving the customer. But here, no one knows me, and they might be wondering who this independent and mysterious girl is alone at a diner at three in the morning.

After I get my to-go order, I leave the restaurant and glance at my phone. There are seven texts and four missed calls from Hands and Kiki. Briskly, I walk toward the Corcorans’ apartment . . . but I feel someone in the distance watching me.

I spin around quickly and wish I had brought the Mace that Hands gave me. I think this really is the end of my life and I will be the newest example of why small-town girls shouldn’t go hunting dreams in the big city.

I look up the street, and I suddenly realize it’s Tad standing under a streetlight and watching me walk home. I turn back around and keep walking. When I’m finally at the gate, I turn my head to see Tad walking the other way.

That was by far one of the kindest things anyone’s ever done for me. But I have no one to tell. I quietly sneak back into the Corcorans’ apartment, where I hear Maria snoring soundly in Tripp’s room. Sipping my shake and eating my fries in bed, I think maybe I found heaven.

Chapter 8
A Good Liar Needs a Good Memory

I
WAKE UP TO MY
phone ringing. I check the caller ID, hoping that it’s Tad calling to tell me how he had a great time or Ford calling to hang out. But it’s neither; it’s Hands. I pick up.

“Kitsy,” Hands gasps. “I thought you were dead. I almost called the cops, but then I remembered that in New York City, you would be just another missing small-town girl among hundreds of others who will never be seen again or found alive. Since I thought no one else would care, I was about to come there to find you myself. What’s going on?”

“Hands,” I say, “don’t be so dramatic. New York’s totally safe.”

So safe that I went out until three in the morning with a stranger, I think. That doesn’t sound as reasonable as it did in my head last night. And a musician, really? I’m acting like Corrinne. I should know better. I vow to be more responsible from now on. This summer is about art and I should be taking advantage of my opportunity.

Hands raises his voice a bit, which is something he does on the football field and only when the Mockingbirds are losing badly, which means it
rarely
happens. “It’s two p.m. Sunday, your time, Kitsy. I repeat: two p.m. I haven’t heard from you since
Friday
night. What am I supposed to think? I almost called Amber. Did you not see my missed calls, texts, and voice mails?”

Rolling onto my stomach, I confirm that it’s actually two p.m. on the digital alarm clock. Yup, I guess that’s what happens when you stay out all night. I never sleep this late; Kiki or Amber always wakes me up needing something. Of course, I saw Hands’s calls/texts/voice mails last night; I just figured he could wait until morning! I didn’t realize that I’d sleep until afternoon.

“I’m sorry,” I say weakly. I debate whether or not I should make something up. I’ve never lied to Hands before, but I’ve also never been in the position of telling him that I didn’t call because I was with some older and hot New Yorker musician during one of the best days of my life. Or at least the best day other than our football team winning state last fall, but that’s everyone in the Spoke’s best day. I want a personal best day that’s all mine.

I decide to go for the lie because it’s the only way I can think to make Hands less upset, right now. I repeat my story twice in my head. By the third time, it almost sounds true.

“My cell phone’s reception has been weird. I was working on drawings until late last night, and I turned off my phone to get into the groove. Professor Picasso says that you can’t multitask art—it’s not like doing homework and Facebooking at the same time, Hands. You need to actually concentrate.”

“Oh. I see. Calling your boyfriend comes after your
art
?” Hands asks slowly, and there’s something about the way that he says
art
that grates on me. It’s like he doesn’t actually think it’s important.

“That’s what I’m here for,” I say, sitting up in bed. “My art.”

I say this even though I
know
my art wasn’t the reason I didn’t call last night. As an artist, don’t you have to see things and not just spend all your time on the phone with your long-distance boyfriend?

“Haven’t I been supportive of your football? Can’t you support me now? Do I not bake brownies and wrap the Tupperware in red and gray ribbons every week during the season?” I ask.

That was low of me; I’m using how much Hands loves my brownies against him, but I’m desperate.

“Don’t worry about baking brownies or supporting my football anymore,” Hands says harshly. “Coach talked to me after practice. The new guy will, in fact, be taking my starting spot. I might as well join you and the Mockingbirdettes on the sidelines. It’d be better than sitting on the bench.”

I jump out of bed and land with a thud. “That’s exactly it, Hands. I’m here so I don’t have to spend my life on the sidelines. Art is my thing, or I want it to be my thing. As much as I love cheering for you, I’m trying to do something where
I’m
in the spotlight.”

“I know that, but I needed you, Kitsy,” Hands says. “You’re the one person who I thought could make me feel better, although I think I was wrong about that.”

Holding the phone away from my face, I take a quick breath. Hands has always been there when I needed him. The times I wanted to show him the new cheer for the sixteenth time, the times I called in the middle of the night about Amber’s drinking, the times I brought Kiki on our dates without even asking. Hands deserves to need me once in a while, too.

“I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hands interrupts in a tone that makes me completely worry about it. “I sent you something, so make sure you check the mail for it. I’ll let you go now; I wouldn’t want you to have to
multitask
. Call me when you’re done making
art
.”

And then I hear it—rather, I don’t hear
anything
. Hands has hung up on me. This has never happened before. But we’ve never been apart and he’s never lost his spot on the team. It’s not like I’m going to get another summer in New York anytime soon. I might not ever get back to New York at all. I’m allowed to be selfish, just this once, right? It’s not like I’m yachting in the Greek isles—I’m here for school!

I patter into the living room and slump on the couch. I try redialing Hands three times and each time it goes straight to voice mail. I don’t leave any messages.
Are we breaking up?
I don’t remember my life without Hands. He feels like family at this point . . . but maybe that’s the problem.

Hush, I think. It’s just the distance. I aim to try and put the thoughts out of my mind because bad thoughts, like chickens, come home to roost.

I slowly make my way to the lobby to get out of the apartment and out of my head. Rudy calls out my name and says, “You received a delivery from Cookies by Design yesterday. It looks beautiful
and
delicious.” He pulls a box from underneath the front desk and opens it to reveal an artist’s palette made out of cookies. “Someone back home must miss you,” he says with a wink.

“Thanks, Rudy,” I say, taking a quick peek at the card. It says, “I’m so proud of you. O O O. Hands.” Each O shoots a dagger at my heart.

I run back upstairs. I find some construction paper scraps and decide to make Hands a card, too. I cut out a football shape from the brown paper and glue on tiny white strips for laces. With a black Sharpie, I write: “I’m sorry about what I said. I just miss you. Thank you for my gift. X X X.”