A Long Way From You (29 page)

When I meet back up with the Corcorans, they all give me huge hugs.

“See, you’re a great investment,” Mrs. Corcoran whispers in my ear when Mr. Corcoran asks if he can buy the photograph of the silo.

“It’s free,” I say, removing the photograph off the wall and handing it to him. “It’s the least I can do.”

Remembering Professor Picasso’s request to leave a piece of art behind, I decide to leave the landscape shot of Broken Spoke’s strip on the wall. It’s no Manhattan skyline, but it has everything someone needs. I like the idea of both leaving a bit of Broken Spoke at Parsons and taking a bit of New York with me to Broken Spoke.

“Are you dripping happy?” Corrinne asks. “That was the big word at camp.
Dripping
. It means awesome.”

“I only know how to describe how happy I am if I speak Texan. Corrinne, may I?”

“Sure,” Corrinne says. “It’s your day. If you want to speak Texan, go right ahead.”

“Corrinne, I feel like I’m riding a gravy train with biscuit wheels.”

“All y’all Texans are nuts.”

“Well, you New York
guys
are crazy, too,” I say, looping my arm in hers and heading for the door. “The stories I could tell . . .”

When the exhibition’s slowing down, I step outside to call home.

Kiki picks up on the first ring.

“Kitsy!” Kiki squeals. “You come home in exactly thirty-two hours. I counted. And guess what? Mom and I are going to the park. Isn’t that cool?”

“That’s super cool,” I say, smiling. “Do the monkey bars for me. And guess what, Kiki? I won a scholarship for my photographs of the Spoke.”

“Of course you did! You’re the best artist in the world.”

I get choked up thinking how Kiki’s not only the best brother but how he’s also a great cheerleader. It must be in the genes.

“You’re the best brother in the universe,” I say.

“Kitsy, I forgot to tell you. Last night, the stars told me that they’ve missed you. I’m sure New York is really cool, but I think it stinks that you can’t see the stars.”

“I agree—”

“You won!” I hear Amber’s voice cry.

She must’ve grabbed the phone from Kiki.

“
Ten thousand dollars!
” I exclaim.

“I’m so proud of you,” Amber says.

That’s the first time Amber has told me she’s proud of me, and it feels just as good as I always imagined it would.

“I’ve got to go,” I say. “But I think we’re going to have a great year.”

“I think you’re right. By the way, I watched the DVD. They have a lot of success stories. It’s definitely worth looking into it. I love you, Kitsy.”

“Love you, too.” When it’s out of my mouth, I realize it’s been a long time since I’ve told her that.

I start typing a message to Hands, but I stop, delete it, and decide to call him after dinner. I need to focus on savoring my last moments in New York.

“Kitsy,” Corrinne calls from down the block. “We’ve got to find a cab
stat.
Our reservation is in T minus five seconds.”

The Corcorans and I have plans for a celebration supper at The Little Owl, a tiny restaurant tucked away in the West Village.

As we stand on the corner to catch a cab (because I totally mastered the taxi-light system), I notice a girl sitting on the sidewalk begging for change. She doesn’t look a day older than me. While I have been in New York long enough that the sight of a homeless person doesn’t shock me anymore, there’s something about her that draws me closer. I notice her cardboard sign has only four words:
TRYING TO GET HOME
. Reaching into my purse, I pull out the twenty dollars that I’ve been saving to buy myself a souvenir from MoMA.

Corrinne watches me and warns, “She’s going to buy drugs.”

I shake my head. “She’s just trying to get home.” I put the bill in her empty Dunkin’ Donuts Styrofoam cup.

I don’t need any souvenirs. I have my experience.

“Bless you,” she says.

“I know what it’s like to want to get home,” I tell her. She doesn’t acknowledge me, but maybe I’m not talking to her anyway.

Acknowledgments

T
O MY READERS, THANK YOU
for allowing my characters to visit your imagination. Please email me your thoughts at [email protected]. I write for you all, and would love to hear what you think!

To my friends, thank you. I believe E. B. White said it best in his beloved children’s classic
Charlotte’s Web
: “‘You have been my friend,’ replied Charlotte. ‘That in itself is a tremendous thing.’” Thank you also for encouraging my writing career and, most importantly, for peddling my books.

To Sarah Burningham, thank you for being my little bird and helping to launch my career.

To Leigh Feldman, your presence in my life continues to be a gift, and I’m always grateful for your wisdom. Thank you for helping me get the world’s greatest job. I’m indebted.

To HarperTeen, I know it takes a village to publish a book, so thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

To Alison Klapthor, I’m happy to let anyone judge my books by their covers as long as you’re the one designing them. Thank you for your—and your team’s—beautiful art!

To Sarah Dotts Barley: It seems like just yesterday we were classmates in German class, and now you’re my editor! What a beautifully small and crazy world it is. Thank you for adopting
A Long Way from You
and raising it like your own. Your vision, intelligence, and attention to detail wow me on a daily basis. It’s actually very hard to believe we went to the same school. I’m beyond grateful to have you as my editor on this novel.

To the O’Sullivan sisters, thank you for the countless reads.

To Cory, you make (my) life better. I love you.

To my mom, my dad, and Aliceyn, I really like being enmeshed, and I’d have it no other way. Thank you for your enduring support, confidence, and, most of all, love.

READ AN EXCERPT FROM THE BEGINNING OF KITSY AND CORRINNE’S STORY IN

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 it’s way more relevant to real life than the three types of sediment rock or the properties of noble gases. And it’s also not revolting, like dissecting a frog. Basically, the butterfly effect is a chaos theory, attributed to a guy named Edward Lorenz. Here’s 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 don’t have anything to do with us, affect our future and our future selves.

When Wall Street nearly collapsed, I didn’t pay much attention. I used to care a lot more about the hottest starlet’s 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 that’s so teeny tiny it’s 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

Chapter 1
Family Meeting

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 doesn’t like Paul Simon’s music. Stupid, it’s a classic, and I don’t 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, it’s 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 she’s one of those people who don’t believe in using cell phones in public? Please, isn’t 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 isn’t 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 she’s the same shopgirl who still hasn’t brought me the pair of Hudson jeans that I asked for more than twenty minutes ago. She’s 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 it’s a new pastime, so I finally silence my phone. It’s my mother anyway, and I don’t want to talk to her.

I don’t want to talk to anyone. I shop alone. Sure, I’ll occasionally have lunch with friends at Fred’s, the restaurant at Barneys. And I’ll be sociable and make a courtesy loop or two of the store afterward, but I won’t wardrobe (aka power shop) with them. They’ll 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 don’t 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 haven’t 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 I’ll have to wear one of those nose strips. Since a private room isn’t going to happen, bunking with Waverly is a better option than some foreign exchange student who doesn’t 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 they’re having a revival.

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

A text message from “her.” That’s how I put my mom into my phone. Funny, right?

Her: Family meeting, 7 pm, get home

It’s 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 Sarita’s older brother taught us to frequent BYOBs, so we don’t get our fakes swiped because when you bring your own booze, the restaurants don’t even card. I guess I’ll have to be a little late to my friends’ dinner since I’ll need to swing by home.

I text her back.

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

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

“I’d 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 didn’t ride or go to the gym today, I simply can’t 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: Don’t B 2 late, we might drink all the vino. And it’s 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 cabbie’s 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 doesn’t 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 didn’t get it. But hey, I don’t 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 that’s 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 it’s 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 pauper’s Christmas like Tiny Tim had in
A Christmas Carol
, but everything I asked for, all four pages (single spaced), sat right under the tree.