A Long Way From You (25 page)

Releasing my breath, I’m amazed to see that the house is completely habitable—although it could definitely benefit from a good Swiffering and a dose of Lysol to mask the smell of cigarettes.

“Amber?” I call out.

I didn’t expect Amber to be waiting with open arms, warm milk, and a platter of Toll House cookies, but I was hoping that she’d at least be expecting me.

“You made it!” I hear Amber shout back from her bedroom.

“Yup,” I say to myself, awkwardly.

Amber comes out from her room. She’s wearing her robe, but I can tell that she curled her hair and put some lipstick on, which means it’s a good day in Amber terms.

Then she does something that surprises me: She embraces me even tighter than Hands did, and he’s the bench-press champion at Broken Spoke High.

“Kitsy,” she says. “You look so much older and sophisticated than before. I can’t believe that you’re my baby girl.”

Sometimes I can’t either.

“Are you now going to tell me why you came all the way home?” she demands impatiently. “What’s going on?”

I know I need to speak directly with Amber. I’m home for this.

I’m realizing for the first time that I can measure home in both physical and mental distances. I feel so tired from traveling them both.

“Wait a minute, Kitsy,” she whispers. Then, a little louder, she says, “Hey, Kiki, do you want to watch one of those movies I rented? I’ll put some popcorn in the microwave. Me and Kitsy need to talk for a minute.”

Amber throws a bag of popcorn into the microwave. Then she slides a DVD of
Miracle on 34th Street
into the player.

“He’ll only watch movies about New York,” Amber explains to me as Kiki plops in front of the TV. “I think it makes him feel closer to you.”

Looking out the front window, Amber smiles and says, “Looks like the sun is almost setting. Days are getting shorter again. Let’s go sit outside.”

I haven’t said anything. Where did the old Amber go?

Sitting down on an old folding chair, Amber lights up a cigarette. Before she takes a drag, she says, “So what’s up, Kits? I know you wouldn’t just come home from your big adventure for nothing, right? I know this trip meant a lot to you.”

I reflect back to all my planning and poring over New York books at the library. My trip didn’t end up being anything like I thought it would be, but turns out that that’s part of what I love about New York—the unpredictability.

“What’s it like?” Amber asks after a moment. “Have you really not seen any celebrities?”

“This isn’t about New York. Well, it is and it isn’t. While I was there, I realized that I wasn’t really
all there
. I kept worrying about you and Kiki. And I know now that if I don’t confront this—what’s happening here, at home—that it’s going to haunt me.”

Amber buries her face in her hands. “I know I haven’t been the perfect mother. I’m sorry,” she says, peeking out.

The only time I’ve ever heard Amber use the word
sorry
before was when she called my dad “a sorry piece of a human.”

Amber breathes in, takes her face out of her hands, and continues.

“When you were first gone, I didn’t know what to do. The house started to get to be a mess, and Kiki was getting all worked up about how he missed you. The Houstons and Hands kept showing up at the door, acting like they weren’t sure that I could take care of him. After a while, I realized they were right. I haven’t been caring for Kiki.
You
have. You’ve been caring for all of us, but not taking care of yourself. It isn’t right.” She wipes a tear from her eye.

I reach into my pocket and give her a Kleenex. I’m used to carrying them around on account of Kiki’s permanently runny nose.

I try to remember for a second if Amber had always been . . . messy. In more ways than one. I can’t remember if my dad left because of the drinking or the drinking happened because my dad left. But it was Amber who stayed and that has to count for something
.

“Oh, Amber,” I say, wiping her eyes with the Kleenex. “I don’t mind doing housework and I love hanging with Kiki. You know that. I understand that sometimes you really struggle. And obviously, nothing’s been easy for you since Dad left. It’s just I worry about your health and if you’ll be able to do all this on your own if I ever leave. After this summer—well, I’ve decided that I
really
want to go to art school, which means leaving you and Kiki for at least a few years.”

Amber puts out her cigarette in a bowl next to us and shakes her head. “I’m not a good mom now, but I’m going to try to become one. I know what it’s like to feel stuck, and I don’t ever want you to feel that way.”

Her words mean a lot to me, but I know this won’t be easy. We’ll need to face this head-on if it’s really going to work.

I scoot my chair closer to hers and soften my voice. “You being able to handle Kiki on your own isn’t just going to happen magically. It’s not that simple. You’re going to need help from professionals. I’ve had this DVD in my room for a long time. It’s about a wellness center at a medical facility. If I give it to you, will you watch it and think about it? We need a plan and a promise.”

“Yes,” she chokes out. “I’ll watch it and give it some serious thought. I want you to be able to follow your dreams. Every mother wants that. I was in your room looking for something, Kitsy, and I saw some of your sketches. They’re really good. I remember you being a talented artist as a little girl, but of course all moms think that. But I realize now that you have something special. I guess I’ve been looking at you without really seeing you. I’m going to change, Kitsy. I promise.”

I rub Amber’s back. “I’ll help in any way I can,” I say. I’m surprised how well Amber is responding. After a while of living a certain way, you figure it’ll be that way forever. You hope otherwise, but you never expect anything. “Thank you so much for talking to me about this. I know it can’t be easy.”

“No, thank
you
, Kitsy, for all your help and support. It’s about time that I start acting like the adult, and you start acting like the teenager.”Amber stands up and wipes the last of her tears. “We will talk more about it before you leave. But right now, how about a family supper?”

I stand up next to her and put my hand on her shoulder. “That sounds nice, Mom,” I say before I realize that I didn’t call her Amber.

When we sit around the table for supper, three no longer seems off balance.

Later that night, after Kiki and Amber have gone into their rooms, Hands picks me up in his truck. Driving down the dirt road sounds like more than a familiar soundtrack. It feels like a lullaby.

Hands drives to an empty cul-de-sac, the very first place we drove when Hands got his license. On the trip there, I fill him in on Amber. He tells me how glad he is that she is finally “taking her place on the starting line.” Hands describes everything in football terms.

When we arrive, Hands turns off the ignition and wraps his muscled arms around me in a big hug. “Tell me everything. Are you ready to leave me for Gotham?”

Oh yeah, Gotham is code name for New York in
Batman.

“Here’s the thing about New York. It’s nothing like the movies. Glamorous or wonderful things don’t happen there every day, but somehow you feel like they
could
. There are so many opportunities.”

Hands nods. “I just wish following your dreams didn’t mean you have to leave the Spoke but it seems like more often than not, it does.”

“That’s just it! When I was there, I felt like I could be someone more than Broken Spoke’s cheerleading captain. I don’t want to stress you out, especially since I’m only home for the night. But I need to ask you something. Why are we together? And please don’t say because you asked me to dance back in the sixth grade.”

In New York, I started to think that the reason that Hands and I were together was because it made sense. I’m the cheerleading captain and he’s the football captain. Maybe that was enough for us earlier on in high school, but what about now?

“Kit-Kat,” Hands says, drumming his left hand on the steering wheel. He looks a little nervous. “I didn’t just
happen
to ask you to dance. I’d been waiting to since kindergarten. It just took that long for me to get up my courage and for the right situation. I have been sweet on you since you wore pigtails with one pink bow and one purple bow when we were little kids on the playground.”

“That’s the kindest thing,” I start to say. I watch a montage of Hands and me growing up together in my mind. We do go way back.

“
But
you didn’t let me finish, Kitsy. I’m with you because you feel like home. I know saying that could get me beat up by the boys, but you’re home to me. I feel the best when I’m with you. I swear state on it.” He knocks his state championship ring on the dashboard for emphasis. “If someday, you want to move to New York, I’ll try to get there as soon as I can. I’m sure New York could always use a few big guys like me to bounce thugs out of bars.”

The image of Hands in New York makes me smile. He’d hate it; the football field is his favorite place in the world and I didn’t see one my entire month in New York. It’s not fair for him to plan his life around me. Just like it’s not fair for me to plan mine around him.

I hesitate. “You’re my best friend, Hands,” I say finally.

“This doesn’t sound good.” Hands looks like he’s been tackled without warning. “I’m sorry,” he spits out, “if I wasn’t supportive enough about your trip and your art, I’m sorry. I was just scared of losing you.”

“Stop,” I say and hold up my hand. “I couldn’t have left Broken Spoke if it wasn’t for you. You helped keep me sane knowing that someone was looking after Kiki. And of all people, you’ve been the most supportive of me and my art.”

“Is it another guy, then? Because I promise you no one ever will love you like I love you. Or actually, I’m sure a million guys would, because it’s you and you’re so amazing. But if you’re breaking up with me, please know that I’ll think about you every single day for the rest of my life,” he says in a shaky voice.

Hands hangs his head, waiting for an answer. And the answer is no, it really isn’t another guy. I would give back all the adventures with Tad for my memories with Hands. This is about me.

“There’s nobody else, Hands,” I say to him earnestly. “We can’t get lost in confusing what we do in Broken Spoke with who we are. You might want to play football in college, but I don’t want to cheer there. I want to study art, so I’m probably going to leave Texas . . . for at least a while. It’s time for me to focus on myself.”

“Haven’t I always been telling you to do that?”

“Sometimes you can’t be told something, Hands,” I say. “You have to learn it for yourself. What happens after this year, I have no idea, but I want to make sure that we both choose our own futures. I couldn’t have made it this far without you, but I want to make sure that I can make it on my own, too.”

“I get that, Kitsy,” Hands says, but he doesn’t hide the tears in his eyes. “It’s about time you come first. But remember, no matter where we are, I will be thinking about you every day for the rest of my life. And even if you played clarinet in the band, I’d still love you just as much. I’m not with you because you’re on the top of the pyramid . . . literally.”

“No matter where we go, you will always be a part of me. So will the Spoke. Nothing can change that.”

It’s nearly nine o’clock. We sit arm in arm and watch as the sun approaches the bottom of the sky, and begins to fan out over the horizon. In New York, you feel like the possibilities are endless, but in Texas, it’s the land that feels that way.

And then I start to realize exactly what Iona, Professor Picasso, Mrs. Corcoran, and even Tad were trying to get me to see: Art comes from the inside. Taking photographs of Hipster Hat Trick was just me trying to see myself through Tad’s eyes. I remember that I brought the school’s camera with me to take a few landscapes for Mrs. Corcoran. Then it hits me that my best portfolio has probably been in my own backyard the whole time.

“Hands,” I say urgently, “I can’t go to the field tonight.” There will be other nights for kegs, Mockingbirdettes, and hanging out with Hands in his pickup at the field.

“Can you drop me off at home? But, first let’s swing by Sonic because I can’t wait another week for a Blast.”

“As long as this isn’t a final good-bye,” Hands says, revving the engine.

“We’ll never have a last good-bye,” I say. And I mean it as much as any other hopeful teenager who has ever uttered those words.

After swinging through Sonic—where I happily find out that my replacement can’t Rollerblade half as well as I can—Hands drops me off at home.

I kiss him on the forehead and say, “It’s only nine days.”

He kisses me back on the cheek. “A lot happened in the last twenty-one days,” he reminds me and I nod because he’s right.

A lot can shift even in a single day. Take today. Sneaking back into the house, I’m careful not to wake Kiki or Amber. In my room, I pull out my camera, confident I’m at least beginning to be myself with my art. I thought it was who I was with or where I was that defined me in some way. I realize now that I decide who I am, no matter the company I keep or the place I am.

As I wait for the earliest signs of morning light—“The Golden Light” as Professor Picasso explained it—I begin to snap photos of my room. When I finally think the light will never come, it shines through and the sun begins to illuminate the morning sky through the curtains. The sunrise is composed of a dozen shades of red. It’s breathtaking. Maybe it
is
true you can never go home again because even home is an ever-changing landscape, a place that’s sometimes troubled and other times happier. But that doesn’t mean it’s not possible to capture fragments of home with my work, and I aim to try.

Click.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: Sunday August 5