A Long Way From You (24 page)

“What was your dream?” I ask and wonder how many years it can take someone to finally catch it.

“I wanted to come to the United States, and now here I am—an American woman with an American daughter. Just listen to this music that my daughter picked out. My childhood dream to live, raise, and educate my family here in America is complete. The best dreams are the ones we have as children because they’re most pure.”

I nod, thinking about how my dream has always been to be an artist and how I need to always remember that, even when I’m older.

“Thanks for everything,” I say to Maria. “But quit entertaining me. Go dance with your daughter. She’s growing up right in front of you.”

As Mrs. Corcoran and I are preparing to leave the party, a cousin brings in hot White Castle cheeseburgers, which I have never had.

“Let’s get some and eat them in the cab!” Mrs. Corcoran says giddily. She seems so much more relaxed here than she does in Manhattan.

Maria comes up to us and gives us hugs.

“White Castle?” Maria shakes her head and laughs. “Maybe Esperanza’s becoming too American. What’s wrong with churros?”

In the cab, Mrs. Corcoran and I are both wearing huge smiles and clutching Mexican candy from the piñata. Tonight turned out to be a whole lot better than I thought it could be after last night. I’m so glad I came. Moping doesn’t help anything.

“That was so much fun,” Mrs. Corcoran says. “It’s sad, but I rarely ever have fun at parties anymore. These days, they’re more like obligations. You looked like you were having fun, too. I saw you dancing with that boy.”

“José? He’s Esperanza’s cousin. He told me it was a pity dance for the Texan. He said Mexico and Texas are neighbors, so he should be hospitable.”

“You can charm anyone,” Mrs. Corcoran says, laughing. “Some people come to New York to find themselves and end up losing who they are. You’re still the same sweet Kitsy.”

I’m glad that she thinks this. While I wanted to grow in New York, I didn’t want to change too much. After walking in on Tad and Annika, I started to seriously doubt some of my decisions this summer.

“Want to know a secret?” Mrs. Corcoran asks.

“Sure,” I answer, resting my head on the window.

“Dusty, my high-school boyfriend, visited me after I moved out to New York. That’s when we broke up. Everyone thinks I dumped him, but that’s not true.”

“What do you mean?” I say, sitting up straight. Mrs. Corcoran, or Jenny Jo as she was known back then, dumped Dusty, Bubby’s dad, after moving to New York City. It’s a Broken Spoke fact.

“That’s what people assumed, and Dusty was too nice to set them straight. He dumped me.”

“He hated New York?” I ask.

“No, he loved New York. He didn’t love Jenny Jo, New York–style. I left Texas to be a model, but somehow, over time, I lost me. I don’t think that’ll ever happen to you, Kitsy. You should be impressed with yourself for staying you and growing at the same time. I’m still learning how to do that.”

“Thanks,” I say. We spend the rest of the cab ride in silence, but my brain is running full speed. If I grew up as much as I feel like I did this summer, then there’s something I have to do.

When we’re back up in the apartment, Mrs. Corcoran and I kick off our heels seconds after entering.

I look at Mrs. Corcoran and realize that I need to tell her now.

“Mrs. Corcoran. Can you change my airline ticket? I need to go home tomorrow night. I’ve been running from something, but it’s not right. I’ll go pack up my things. I’m sorry about this,” I apologize, feeling my eyes start to well.

“Are you sure it can’t wait, Kitsy?” she asks, putting her hand on my shoulder. “You’re going home in a week.”

“Maybe it can wait,” I say. Then I shake my head. “But it shouldn’t. It’s too important.”

“Okay, Kitsy. If there’s an emergency, I can get you on a plane to Dallas. But I want you to try to come back here as soon as possible and finish what you’ve started. I’ve already cleared my schedule for your portfolio show next week, and it would break Corrinne’s heart not to see you.”

“Thank you so much,” I say. “It’s not an emergency, but . . . it’s been going on too long and I finally need to deal with it. I just can’t go into it right now. Do you think I could leave tomorrow night and come back late Sunday night? That way I won’t miss any school. I promise I’ll pay you back, a little bit each month.”

“If that’s what you need,” Mrs. Corcoran says, “I’ll call the airline right away. But I’m not letting you pay for the ticket. We have plenty of miles to use, so there will be no reason to pay us back. But first, let me apologize to you.”

“For what?” I ask. I feel like I’m the one that needs to apologize for wasting the Corcorans’ money and picking such a silly project.

“I haven’t been here for you as much as I thought I would be. When I was in the Spoke last fall, I was convinced that I had changed and that I wouldn’t ever get so wrapped up in New York again. But then I came back, little by little . . . I guess what I’m trying to say is—”

“That it’s possible to be two different people in two different places?”

Mrs. Corcoran stops and looks at me appreciatively. “I guess you understand what I mean, Kitsy. It’s okay to just be your best self though. Change doesn’t always mean growth.”

She gives me a big hug. “Will you take some pictures of my Spoke? I want to make sure that I always have a bit of home with me. The things that matter the most in life.”

“Of course,” I tell her.

I wish Mrs. Corcoran good night and go back to my room to pack. It’s time for me to finally deal with some of the baggage I’ve been carrying around since I got here.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: Friday August 3

Subject: Where are you?

Have you gotten my last few emails? Have you abandoned me for cooler New Yorkers? (You know that’s a trick, right? There isn’t anyone cooler than me. Please don’t tell me you’ve been spending time in Brooklyn. Not now.) Stuff with Cory’s going well but . . . he’s a bit serious. I mean, what happens at camp stays at camp, right?

Chapter 14
Can You Never Go Home Again?

C
INDERELLA HAS ALWAYS BEEN MY
favorite fairy-tale heroine. As a child, I dressed up as her for three Halloweens straight. Many nights, I dreamt that my life could also change with the swish of a magic wand or a kiss from a prince, just like Cinderella’s did.

By coming to New York, I got to realize my fantasy: to escape and end up someplace magical. But after living my own fairy tale, I don’t think of Cinderella as a hero. Instead of confronting her evil stepsisters and stepmother, she hightailed it to the palace and left her father and friends behind. In a sense, she left Cinderella behind, just like Annabelle did with Annika. What’s so heroic about running away?

In my new fairy tale, the girl is brave. Not because she figures out how to get away, but because she realizes that she needs to return home. There’s no sense in spending your life running from yourself—or the truth. Happily ever after is not a place: It’s a state of being, and you have to work at it every day.

Boarding the plane to Dallas late Friday night, I think back to Annika telling me how it’s not easy to go home again. But I’m not Annika. If I were her, I would have five more inches, a TV show, and Tad. Now I know that those aren’t things I want.

I text Hands
I’ve got a surprise for you!
before the flight takes off. I know that I should be more excited to see my boyfriend, especially after three weeks, but I feel like I’m wearing three barrels on my back.

During the flight, I sleep like I’ve been awake for weeks. There must be something like New-York-City-induced fatigue that occurs once you are off the island. But I’m glad for the rest because it keeps me from obsessing over why I’m heading home.

As the plane approaches Dallas, I’m relieved to see huge pastures of grass and a skyline that seems tiny in comparison to New York’s. I don’t think I realized how much I missed the palette of Texas, where there’s every shade of Mother Earth. New York definitely has the monopoly on a lot of things, but Texas owns the rainbow.

Corrinne’s grandparents pick me up from the airport early Saturday morning. They are the Grandparents of the Century. Mr. Houston even taught Corrinne how to drive a pickup with a stick shift, which must’ve required the bravery of a cowboy and the patience of a saint. It’s funny to imagine that they are glamorous Mrs. Corcoran’s parents, but families don’t always match up like you think they would.

When I climb into the cab of Billie Jean the Third, Mrs. Houston turns around in the front seat and brushes a hair out of my face.

“You must be beyond exhausted, Kitsy. I sure know that we are always bushed after a few days in New York. Even the dogs seem to walk faster there.”

I nod. It’s not just New York that can be exhausting. Broken Spoke and family can be, too. Ditto for high school.

“Well, honey,” Mr. Houston says, pushing his cowboy hat down to block the sun and shifting gears as we’re getting onto the highway. “Tell us about your favorite New York experience, and something about your art class.”

“I made a clay vase that exploded on my class,” I tell them, laughing. “And my favorite New York adventure is . . . well, I had the best time when Corrinne was there.”

Mrs. Houston shakes her long, silver hair and says, “I just hope she didn’t get a good girl like you in too much trouble.”

Oh, I did plenty of that on my own, Mrs. Houston. Out loud, I say, “My favorite memory by myself was definitely when I went to a diner at three
in the morning
!”

“Mercy,” Mr. Houston says. “Out at three a.m.
and
alone? The twenty-first century terrifies me.”

Mrs. Houston surprises me by smiling and nodding. “I think that’s wonderful, Kitsy. Sometimes, we forget to reflect back on all the great times we had by just ourselves. You can be your own best friend, you know.”

And your own worst enemy, too, I think. I really wasted my time on that Hipster Hat Trick “project” and now I have no idea what to do for my portfolio that’s due next week.

“Rest, child,” Mrs. Houston says. “I know you’re tired. Before we go to your house, we’re going to stop by the scrimmage. Kiki is watching Hands play. Did you hear about that new quarterback who moved to town? I think Hands will pull through, though. He plays with a lot of heart.”

She’s right. He does. I was way too dismissive of Hands and what he cares about when I was in New York. He’s just as passionate as me even if it is about other stuff.

As Mr. Houston talks about Hands fighting for his spot, I think about how when you live in a small town, your struggles and your triumphs are everyone’s business. Right now, I’m thinking that’s a good thing. It’s comforting to have people on the sidelines rooting for you when you’re winning and there when you fall down.

When I wake up, we’re driving down Broken Spoke’s strip. There’s not much to see—a Chinese restaurant called Chin’s, a Sonic, a grocery store, and a hardware store. Rumors are we might be getting a coffee shop, too. Not a Starbucks, but those are overpriced anyway.

I always thought that Broken Spoke didn’t have much to it, but now I realize that it had everything I needed. I wonder if I’ll have time to have an egg roll at Chin’s (which are way better than any I had in New York) or drop by Sonic to work out my schedule for the fall. Feelings of belonging and familiarity wash over me.

When we pull up to the field, Kiki starts running toward Billie Jean the Third from a quarter of a mile away. Seeing him is the best homecoming I could ask for.

As soon as I open the car door, Kiki flies into my arms. I hold him tight.

“Where are my presents?” he yells. “Is Slimer in your bag? Does he feel oozy?”

I finally release Kiki from our hug and pat him on the head. “I missed you, too,” I say. “I’m only giving you one present now. I’ll bring more treats when I come next week.”

When I pull out the iconic
I ♥
NEW YORK
T-shirt I bought from the airport store before I boarded, Kiki squeals in delight.

“I’m wearing this on the first day of third grade. And the second day, and the third day, and the fourth day.”

Mr. and Mrs. Houston start walking toward the football field and wave at us to follow.

“C’mon, Kitsy,” Mr. Houston says. “Let’s see how hard you’re going to need to cheer next year.”

From our distance, I see Hands catch a tight spiral and run. There’s my number 18. When Hands sees me, he keeps running past the goal post and into the parking lot where I’m standing. With one (large) arm, he picks me up and kisses me on the mouth.

“I thought it was you!” he says, laughing. “But
why
are you home?”

“I need to deal with something,” I answer as best as I can. He doesn’t stop looking at me. How do I explain that I’m doing this now? “Amber,” I say simply.

Hands raises his eyebrows in a way that I know means he thinks she’s crazy, but hey, she’s the only parent I’ve got.

The guys are calling for Hands from the field to get back to the scrimmage. Reluctantly, Hands lets me down.

“Field tonight?” he asks me with a wink.

“I’m leaving tomorrow. I really want to see you and talk to you, too. Pick me up after dinner?”

Hands grows a little more still and asks quietly, “Sure, but is everything okay, Kit-Kat?”

“It will be,” I say. I give Hands a hug and move back toward the Houstons’ truck, where Kiki’s hopping up and down in his New York shirt, which he already slipped over his head. Mr. and Mrs. Houston ask me if I’m ready to go home. I nod, not sure if I actually am.

After I profusely thank Mr. and Mrs. Houston for the ride, Kiki and I go inside the house. Part of me braces myself for a scene out of that show
Hoarders.
Taking out the trash, washing dishes, and basically doing anything domestic has always been my responsibility. Before I left I taught Kikster how to do dishes because we don’t have a dishwasher, but I wasn’t exactly depending on a nine-year-old to hold it all together.