A Long Way From You (19 page)

“These aren’t really my thing. They make America look depressing,” he says and nods toward a shot of a plate of steak at a cheap restaurant.

“Parts of it can be depressing,” I say. “Some parts can be even depressing and beautiful at the same time.”

“I only like beautiful things,” Ford declares and points down the stairs to another exhibit. “That’s why I’m going to work in fashion. Let’s keep going.”

Something pulls me back. It’s a photograph of a small-town strip that looks very similar to Broken Spoke. “I think these are beautiful in their own right because they’re authentic,” I argue.

“Who wants authentic?” Ford asks. “Art should be fantastical and breathtaking, just like fashion. Stores like Eddie Bauer and Cold Water Creek should be sued for selling fashion that’s anything less than glamorous. Now let’s speed our way through this museum and then go window-shopping because that’s
my
favorite type of art-gazing.”

“Sure, sure,” I say, happy to have a friend, even if our opinions of art are very different.

After another night of avoiding Mrs. Corcoran’s questions about Amber visiting, I buck up and call home on my way to class on Thursday morning. The phone rings nearly four times before Amber picks up.

“Kitsy,” she says groggily. “What are you doing up so early?”

“It’s almost nine here, Amber,” I say as I weave through the morning foot traffic toward school. “The city’s buzzing already. My class starts in a few minutes, and I’ve been up for hours. Where’s Kiki?” I ask.

“Probably watching TV,” she answers in the same tired voice.

I sigh. “Maybe take him to the park after sunset or something,” I say as I pass by Carrie’s stoop from
Sex and the City.
There are already a bunch of tourists lined up, taking photos. “Everyone walks everywhere here. It’s amazing. I think it’s important for Kiki to be outside even if it’s hot.”

“He doesn’t like doing anything with me,” Amber grumbles. “Every other word is Kitsy. You’d think
you
were his mother.”

“I’m almost at school, so I only have a minute,” I say as I wait for the light to turn. “But Mrs. Corcoran wants to fly you out to see my exhibition. That’s where I show all my art—”

“I know what an exhibition is, Kitsy,” Amber interrupts. “You know, I had a life before you.”

I avoid her trap and say quickly, “I talked to Hands and he said his mom could babysit Kiki. It’d be nice to have family here for my show.”

“You know I would come,” Amber says and pauses. “It’s just I’ve got some good job leads, and I think it’d be better if I stayed. I promise I’ll make it to the first game to see you cheer.”

I know that she’s lying about the job leads. As much as I didn’t want Amber in New York, I suddenly realize now that I desperately wanted
her
to want to visit and see my art. Amber has made it to only two of my cheerleading events. I stopped inviting her because I don’t want to get my hopes up. Even if she promises to show, she doesn’t.

“This is not a halftime cheerleading performance; this is a real art event. This is what I want to do. This is what I wake up thinking about,” I argue.

“Kitsy, it’s one thing to let the Corcorans pay for your summer classes and whatnot, but I don’t want people thinking I can’t take care of my own family. There’s no way I’m coming. Here’s your brother,” she says.

“Kitsy!” Kiki squeals, and I silently pray that he didn’t overhear us. I try as hard as I can to shield him from these types of conversations.

“Kiki!” I say as cheerfully as I can. “Guess what? I’m going to call Hands and see if you and him can have a Sonic date tonight. How does that sound?”

“Amazing!” Kiki shouts. “They have a new foot-long hot dog! But I miss you, Kitsy. Have you found any real stars there yet?”

“Not yet,” I say as I round the corner before I get to school. “I’ve got to go to class now, Kiki, but I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Kiki says. “Wait, how about
I
come visit you in New York since Mom can’t make it?”

His words feel like punches to my stomach.

“I promise you that someday I’ll take you to New York,” I say and hang up before Kiki can ask when.

I’m not in a great mood as I walk into class. I’m bummed about Amber and I’m annoyed that Tad hasn’t called since he performed his original song, which means it definitely wasn’t about me. I also know that I completely messed up by skipping the scholarship meeting. I’m here for
my
art. I didn’t leave Kiki at home for me to swoon over a guy that isn’t my boyfriend.

“Hi, Ford,” I say as I flop into my seat.

“What’s wrong, Kitsy?” he asks, giving me an intent look. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

I like Ford a lot, but I’m not ready to unload Amber and Kiki onto him. Back home, everyone knows my family situation. It’s nice that I can shed that here—at least on the surface.

“Nothing,” I answer quickly and give him a huge grin. “So tell me more about how your fashion dream started.”

Lighting up, Ford takes off his violet frames and launches into the story about how he used to sew outfits for his sister’s Barbie dolls using his mother’s old clothes.

It’s pretty nice to get to escape from my own thoughts for a while and learn more about my new friend.

While I’m glazing my vase near the end of the class, Iona approaches me. “I didn’t see you at the scholarship meeting on Monday,” she says in an accusing tone.

I look at her and shrug. “Something came up,” I say honestly and start another coat of glaze.

Iona raises just one eyebrow. “Something more important than a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship?”

My first thought:
No.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” I say without looking up. “Besides, it’s not like I’d win.”

“That’s a
great
way of looking at life,” Iona says sarcastically just as Ford walks up.

Ford rolls his eyes at Iona. “How about another museum date this weekend?” Ford asks me.

“Kitsy probably doesn’t think museums are important,” Iona says to Ford, who gives her a confused look.

Picking up my vase, I sigh and say, “I’ve had enough for today.” Without a good-bye, I walk across the room, set my vase down to be fired, and leave.

At my school, if you’re a cheerleader and you date the quarterback, you’re popular. But being popular only means you get invited to all the parties and no one bugs you at school. It doesn’t mean that kids don’t talk behind your back. And just because you’re always around people, it doesn’t mean that you have a lot of real friends. I never even had a best girlfriend until Corrinne.

Walking back home after the Iona-scholarship incident, I dial Corrinne. If I’ve ever needed a friend, now’s the time.

“Hey, Kitsy!” Corrinne says, whispering. “I’m hiding in the camp’s shower house. I’m not supposed to have my phone, but I was in Facebook withdrawal. Of course, I picked up when you called because I’d break
any
rule for you.”

“Thanks, Corrinne,” I say and ready myself to confess everything I haven’t told her about New York.

But then Corrinne squeals, “Holy Holly Golightly, Kitsy, I’ve had a personal life revelation. One of my cocounselors, Cory, is the hottest guy ever and I’m pretty sure he’s going to have a
big
influence on my life.”

I swear I’d be a millionaire if I had a dollar for every time Corrinne called a male
the hottest guy ever
.

“Of course, he barely knows that I’m alive, but that’ll change,” she says. “How’s the art-making? Have you moved into MoMA and pitched a tent?”

Looking down at the cement, I wonder if I should tell Corrinne about everything that’s going on. After all, she’s been beyond kind to give me this whole experience. It’d be completely rude of me to tell her how I squandered my chances for a scholarship and I haven’t even been back to MoMA.

All of a sudden, I’m so overwhelmed that I can’t ask Corrinne what I really need to talk to someone about. So I lie: “I’ve visited lots. You were so kind to get me the membership. I’m just calling to say that I can’t wait to see you at my show.”

“Thanks, Kitsy,” she says. “I love you, but I gotta go—my cabin needs to practice our lip sync. I can’t believe I’m at some rugged camp, and you’re in the city. Talk about total role reversal. It’s like a Miley Cyrus movie. Love ya.”

“Love you, too,” I say and I hang up. I still think that Corrinne’s “rugged camp” is probably still pretty luxurious. After all, exaggeration is Corrinne’s favorite accessory. A big emergency there is probably deciding which pair of riding pants to wear to dinner. I don’t want to weigh her down by making her deal with my drama.

I walk into the front door and drop all my things in a defeated heap when I realize Maria is there.

“Hello, Kitsy!” Maria says as she wipes down the counter.

I carefully pick up my things off the floor. “Hi, Maria,” I say. “How are you doing? I loved the chilaquiles. You’ll have to give me the recipe. I do most of the cooking at my house.”

“Your mother doesn’t cook?” Maria asks.

“No,” I say, hoping Kiki has had at least a few meals that didn’t come out of the freezer since I’ve been gone.

“She’s just like Mrs. Corcoran,” Maria says. “She doesn’t cook either. Kitsy, did you notice that the orchid is starting to bud?” she asks, pointing to the plant on the windowsill.

“Wow,” I say, admiring it. “I hope that I’m here to see it bloom.”

“If not, you’ll be back and that plant will still be here. It’s a survivor. Oh, Kitsy, I have an invitation to my daughter Esperanza’s
quinceañera
for you and the Corcorans,” she says and places a beautiful, handmade invitation on the counter.

I only know a little about
quinceañeras
, a special tradition for many Spanish-speaking girls’ fifteenth birthdays. A few of my classmates in Broken Spoke had them, but I’ve never been invited to one.

“I’m finished for the day,” Maria says, heading for the door. “I hope that both you and the Corcorans will come.”

“I’d love to,” I call out after her. I doubt with the Corcorans’ busy schedule that they’ll be able to make it.

I guess there is more than one way for parents to be absent. Maybe Corrinne and I have that in common.

I fumble through my bag and pull out my cell phone to call Ford to see if there’s any way he’s up for another museum date right now. I need to get out. Good Kitsy is back in the driver’s seat. I see one new text.

Hey, Texas! It’s Annika. I have an event. Do you want to go for an hour then do something fun?

Maybe a date with Annika is
exactly
what I need. If anyone knows how to make it in New York from a small town, it’s her.

Me: Sure. What should I wear?

Museums will be here tomorrow.

Annika: Just look hot. Be at 42nd and 5th at 8.

I rush to Corrinne’s closet and pick out a yellow jersey tank and a pair of black silk shorts. Quickly, I heat and eat a prepared supper, a chicken potpie from the fridge, and give myself a once-over before I head out. I’m not sure I look
hot
, but I know I don’t look like myself, a feeling that I’m getting used to.

One hot and sweaty subway ride and a transfer later, I’m standing at Forty-Second Street and Fifth Avenue in front of a library. But it doesn’t look anything like Broken Spoke’s public library, which is a one-story brick building with the word
READ
painted in large bubble letters.

The New York Public Library is a white stone building that looks like it should house jewels, not books. Three huge archways, flanked by six columns, lead into the library. Above each column is a statue representing a “useful knowledge.” Two marble lions guard the entranceway.

I recognize it as where Big and Carrie almost got married in the
Sex and the City
movie and from the opening scene of
Ghostbusters
. Quickly, I snap a few pictures and text them to Kiki. He’s going to freak.

Feeling a hard slap on my butt, I spin around and find Annika. Her “hot” constitutes a dress the color of her skin that nearly makes her look naked, and a blowout that only a professional could do. She doesn’t look small-town at all. I hope someone will say that about me one day.

“Love your makeup,” Annika says.

Well, if all fails, I can always go back to blushing and bronzing.

“So what’s your event?” I ask.

“It’s a party hosted by a magazine to highlight young people in the arts.”

“You work at a magazine?” I ask, having a hard time even imagining Annika behind any desk, even one at a fashion magazine.

“Gawd, no. That would probably require a college degree, and I gave up that when I, well, technically dropped out of high school.”

“You dropped out of high school?” I try not to wear my shock on my face, but isn’t high school necessary for most everything?

As we get closer, I notice a zillion cameramen lined up on the library’s steps, and there’s a red carpet in front of the entrance.

Annika turns to me and says, “Hey, Kitsy, do you want the short or the long story about me?”

“I think we only have time for the short,” I say as she loops her arm into mine.

Breathing in, Annika begins to speak. “Okay. Here it goes: I went to Mall of America last summer before my senior year. A talent scout was hanging out by the food court where I was eating at a Dairy Queen, an establishment this city is sadly lacking. Blizzards are mad good. Blah, blah, blah, blah, he was looking for an unknown to star on this new show. And, tada, I’m now that girl. The pilot got picked up a month ago, and we start filming next week. The show’s totally unrealistic. It’s supposed to take place in Wisconsin, and the plot is how all the girls spend their days chasing hockey players. Except it’s stupid because in real life, girls in the Midwest play hockey, too. Basically, I have to swoon over pretty boys pretending to be hockey players when at twelve I could’ve outskated even the stunt players.”