A Long Way From You (10 page)

After a lesson from Professor Picasso on how to mark off different sections of the body, he dismisses us. “You can go for the day
.
But, first, give me your best attempt.”

He quickly moves around the room collecting sketches. When he reaches me, I tear out what I think is my best sketch. I try not to make eye contact so he doesn’t see how I was sweating like a hog at a 4-H competition. He hasn’t said anything to anyone else when he collected their sketches, so I’m shocked when he says, “
Really?
” I look up to see him raise his furry, gray eyebrows, which resemble aging caterpillars.

“Yes, sir,” I squeak, and I see my classmates start to whisper. His “really” was most certainly not a
really
with excitement.

Professor Picasso looks away without another word.

I quietly collect my belongings, and I walk out the door. Some of my classmates, including Iona, are gathering in the hall.

“Kitsy,” Iona calls out. “What was your sketch like? Why did Picasso say
really
to you? Did you reinterpret his instructions?”

“No,” I answer, “I drew only what I saw.” I don’t mention that it wasn’t pretty, either.

“That’s weird then,” Iona says, looking confused. “We’ll find out tomorrow. Apparently, Picasso gives critiques of everyone’s work in front of the class. It’s basically a roast. I think it’s going to be
fantastic
. I love to watch people get skewered, especially kids with huge egos.”

I can barely muster a “great, see you then,” before I turn to scuttle down the hallway. New Jersey? A fat, naked model? A “really?” A roast that doesn’t involve a pig or a cow? What have I gotten myself into?

I’m halfway down the hallway when I feel a hand on my shoulder. “I’m Ford,” the jokester with glasses who sat next to me says.

“Kitsy,” I introduce myself. “Kitsy Kidd. You almost got me in trouble in class for laughing.”

“No one’s ever been hurt from laughing. And, I wouldn’t worry about Iona. I know her from school and she just likes to get into people’s heads. By the way, I totally
heart
your clothes,” he says, examining my outfit, a watercolor blue-and-green print skirt with a magenta top. “How did you think of putting those colors together?”

I hesitate for a second before speaking—then I remember why I’m here.

“Okay, I’ve never told this to anyone, but I get my inspiration from color palettes from artworks that I love. I figure artists, especially great ones, know color way better than any expensive designer does. Today, my outfit is based off of the colors from Monet’s
Water Lilies
.”

“That’s
so
classy,” Ford says and twirls me around. “Much cooler than ordering out of J.Crew like most of the
chicas
I’ve grown up with do. They all look like teenage clones.”

I nod. Back home, I love being part of the Mockingbirdettes. But I don’t like how we all dress alike for game days. We match everything down to our earrings, hairstyles, and socks. I personally think it’d be more fun if we showed our individual personalities, but I always got voted down on that one.

Ford breathes in and continues, “I would completely
die
to work in fashion, but my parents aren’t so gung ho about it. I even took them to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see the Alexander McQueen show, the amazing fashion designer’s retrospective, which was AH-
mazing
. But it’s, like, my parents are totally blind. On second thought, if you saw the way they dressed, you might think they’re actually blind. They wouldn’t let me take another fashion class this summer because they think it isn’t
real art.
They’re liberal art professors and are total academic snobs about any disciplines other than the classics. This summer course is our compromise.”

“I think fashion is art. But
really
, what do I know?” I joke, mimicking Professor Picasso’s
really
.

Ford bursts out laughing. Even though I made a joke of it, remembering Professor Picasso’s
really
feels like someone pricked me with a needle.

“I do understand the parent thing,” I say and nod knowingly. “My mom wants me to do something practical even though she doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

Ford smiles back. “I think it’s practical to follow your dreams since that’s what will make you happy. Isn’t it actually
impractical
to do something we don’t like? That’d be setting ourselves up for failure,” he says and winks. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“It was really nice to meet you, Ford!” I call out.

Even if Professor Picasso wasn’t impressed with me, at least
someone
out there thinks I have an eye. And I can’t forget I’ve met two people since I arrived here who can talk art, which is two more than I’ve ever met in Texas. It’s been a nice turn of events from Broken Spoke, where most conversations play out like an episode of
BSFN
,
Broken Spoke Football Network
, with reruns from the last fifty years playing on a loop.

When I’m outside on the street, I turn my cell phone back on. Four texts.

Waverly: Big party tomorrow! Corrinne told me to invite you. Call me.

Kiki: Are you famous yet?

Hands: Coach wants to get breakfast tomorrow and “talk.” Not good.

Corrinne: How’d it go? I can’t believe I’m in the country at camp, and you are in the city. Talk about funny!

I’m shocked that Waverly actually invited me even if Corrinne did ask her to. And a party on a Tuesday? I mean, it’s summer, but isn’t it technically still a school night?

I should call Hands or Kiki to talk and catch up with them both about New York and home, but I need my thoughts for myself right now. I start walking back toward the Corcorans’, figuring I’ll save some money and skip the subway fiasco. I know that Hands especially needs Mockingbirdette Kitsy right now, but I’m feeling a little more like Struggling Artist Kitsy. I need my own personal cheerleader so Hands will have to wait.

As I walk down the streets of the West Village, I already feel calmer. I take a deep breath and try to think good thoughts. This is the place of dreams, even if today wasn’t perfect. You can’t expect to wake up and have your dreams come true instantly. You have to earn them, and if I’m good at anything, it’s working hard.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: Monday July 16

Subject: Missing you!

I’m not sure if you’ll get this since you’re at camp, but just wanted to say hi. It’s hard navigating this place without you!

The first day of school went okay—not sure the professor likes me, but I’m planning on charming him into it. I also met a new friend—I think you’d love him because he has as many opinions as you. Maybe more. ☺ And I’m going to a party with Waverly soon. It was really nice of her to invite me. More later. Wish you were here.

Chapter 6
How High Have You Been?

“T
IME
’
S UP FOR TODAY.
H
AND
me your sketches,” Professor Picasso announces and immediately starts circling the room like a vulture. Simultaneously, everyone tries to make frantic last-minute changes to the best figurative drawing from today’s class before he collects them.

Ford pushes down his glasses. Today, they are candy-apple red. “You’d think we’re on
Survivor
,” he whispers seriously.

Like with most classes, where you sit on day one is most often where you’ll always sit. Anything else would disrupt the order. Although at first I was uncomfortable with my close-up views of our model, I’ve decided I like my seat. Ford’s entertaining, and I’d like to make a friend here.

Ford checks out my red skirt from the Proenza Schouler for Target collection, which I paired with Corrinne’s Milly pink-and-yellow-striped top. Fashion magazines are always telling you to mix high and low, and it’s easy to do when I mix and match Corrinne’s clothing with mine.

“Who inspired today’s outfit?” he asks. He gently touches the skirt’s material.

“Georgia O’Keeffe’s
Red Canna
,” I whisper and smile. It’s especially nice to have someone admire my artistic sense of dressing. Nervously, I finish my shading. “I’m freaking out because of what Iona said about Professor Picasso roasting us today.”

“I think that’s a rumor,” Ford says, putting down his pencil and pointing to Professor Picasso. He continues to silently roam the room, collecting and stacking the sketches as he walks.

He makes his way to Ford, then to me. After taking my sketch, Professor Picasso pauses for a long minute, looking at it closely before he puts it on the top of the pile and walks to the front of the room.

I close my eyes and ask for anything other than a
really.
Maybe I prayed too hard because Professor Picasso launches into an entire speech.

“Kitsy,” he says to the class, “is using a technique called chiaroscuro, which I hope most of you know is a strong contrast between dark and light.”

Last night, after I studied Rembrandt’s nudes online, I scoured art websites for information about the proper technique for chiaroscuro. I was determined to change Picasso’s
really
into a
wow.
I smile, thinking I’m being complimented.

“While Kitsy has made a valiant attempt to use an incredibly advanced technique, it falls flat with her skill set. I want you people to draw what you see instead of focusing on reinterpretation, especially when using techniques above your skill level. Please remember this.”

The class nods as one, and I use all my energy to retain my posture and quietly say, “Thank you for the advice, Professor Picasso.”

Inside, I feel like I’m wilting.

Once we’re outside the classroom, Ford puts his arm around me and says, “Hey, Kitsy, I think you made the model look
way
better than he did in real life. He needed a little bit of chiaroscuro if you ask me.”

“Thanks,” I say, looking at my watch, and remember that I need to be showered and ready for Waverly’s party in the next hour. Something I definitely don’t feel like going to anymore.

“Can’t wait to see you tomorrow, especially to see what you’re wearing. Want to start a fashion line someday? Ford and Kitsy? Or if you really want, Kitsy and Ford.”

“Let me see how this art class goes,” I say, wishing I was going to hang with him, not Waverly. “I’m feeling a bit discouraged.”

“It’s only day two, Kitsy. Just yesterday, you were the one giving me a pep talk about art. You need to give yourself the same one right now. Besides, Professor Picasso did call it a valiant attempt. You have to hear the good stuff, too,” he says, giving my shoulders a quick squeeze before heading the other direction.

As I walk toward the building’s exit, I aim to try to take his advice, hoping that the Village streets can calm me down two days in a row.

I hear Iona calling my name from down the hall, but I pretend not to hear and keep going. I’m not exactly in the mood to give her ketchup to go with my roast.

Hear the good stuff, too
, I remind myself.

Ding-dong
goes the bell. I still can’t believe I’m standing at the door of the Wicked Witch of Uptown, Miss Waverly Dotts.

But before I have time to change my mind about being there, Waverly opens her front door and pecks both of my cheeks with little kisses. I don’t return the favor because I’m so knackered.

“Earth to Kitsy. I know Manhattan’s, like, a new planet for you, but you’re really spacing out.” Waverly’s looking me up and down, and I watch her mouth drop open. Honestly, it’s not Waverly’s best look.

“Closet, Kitsy. Now,” she orders and beckons me to follow her. I had been hoping for a tour of her apartment, not her closet, but I’m not about to ask since I’ve never known what to expect from Waverly.

Looking down at my simple black dress from home that I’ve paired with Corrinne’s accessories, I’m ready to protest. I look fine. I might not
feel
fine after my second day of art school, but I look totally acceptable.

“How are you, Waverly?” I ask, trying to renegotiate this encounter back into a normal human one versus Hurricane Waverly storms Kitsy once again.

“No time for chitchat, Kit-Kat,” Waverly says before shrilly laughing at her own joke. Then she pulls four dresses out of the closet and hurls them onto her wrought-iron canopy bed. I let the Kit-Kat thing slide even though I only let Hands call me that and only in private.

Surveying Waverly’s room, I decide the theme is Princess and the Pea in New York City. There must be a dozen pillows on her bed; her white-and-pink fluffy down comforter has her monogram stitched and stamped all over it like zebra spots. Money sure doesn’t buy taste.

I try again with civil conversation. “What are your plans for the summer? What kind of job do you have? Corrinne mentioned you had a work event.”

Waverly digs her hand into a jewelry box as if it were a treasure chest. She tosses a few long chains on top of the dresses.

She looks at her mess and keeps walking. She probably has a maid to clean that for her. Waverly’s perfectly manicured nails don’t look like she’s ever cleaned a day in her life. I’m not ashamed that I’m responsible for most of the cleaning back home. Like my grandma always said, “No one has ever drowned in their own sweat.”

Waverly pulls out a black dress that looks nearly identical to the one I’m already wearing and a stack of bangles.

“This.” It’s as if I’m Waverly’s own personal Barbie doll.