A Long Way From You (20 page)

“Wow,” I say. “You played hockey?”

Annika smiles. “And that is why I like you, Kitsy. After all of that, you just want to know if I actually played hockey. You’re so not
New York.
”

I smile and eat the ten million questions I have for her about what it’s like to be an actress.

“I don’t even know how to ice-skate. We don’t have a rink in Broken Spoke. Hands”—I hesitate, realizing I’ve never mentioned him to Annika—“he’s my friend in Texas,” I lie coolly. “He skated once when he visited his second cousins in Houston, and says it kills your ankles. My brother, Kiki, would die to do it because he’s obsessed with the Mighty Ducks movies. I’d love to try, too, and I think I’d be good because Rollerblading seems similar, and that’s how I serve my customers at Sonic.”

I stop the Kitsy Monologue when I become pretty sure that Annika isn’t listening. She’s scoping out the scene.

“People will take our picture up there because I’m starting to get recognized. Everyone wants to be the one who finds the new ‘it girl.’ All the new ‘it girl’ actually means is that you aren’t anyone yet.” Annika uses huge quotation gestures each time she says “it girl.”

We get in line behind other people, who are way more dressed up than either Annika or me.

“Let’s put in some face time and find something better than this,” she says.

I’m standing on a red carpet with an almost celebrity, and there’s allegedly something
better
than this?

When we walk near the entrance, I hear someone ask, “Isn’t that the girl on that new
Iced
show?” and another yells out, “ANNABELLE!”

Annika turns her head around, puts a hand on her hip, tilts her knees together, and pops her butt. She opens her mouth, not so much in a smile as a pout. Her pose immediately drops ten pounds off her already slender figure. Freezing like an ice sculpture, she holds her pose while a rapid series of lights flash. Only when it finally becomes dark again does she relax and drop the pose.

“How did you learn that?” I ask her once we’re inside. “And how come that guy screamed ‘Annabelle’?”

“The pose is a variation of the sorority squat that my sister taught me. As for the name, my agent thought Annika was too ethnic or too small-town or not enough of something. I like Annabelle way better but sometimes I just forget to introduce myself that way. Try to call me Annabelle if you can remember.”

I think of my own name, and I wonder if I’d have to change it to make it in New York. Would anyone want to buy a Kitsy original? Even though I was named after my mom’s first doll, I like my name.

“That’s kind of how it is at the salons here,” I say, thinking back to Corrinne and me at Spa Belles my first day here. “I told the nail tech that I liked her name, Joy, but that’s actually her fake name. Her real name is Phung, but they all take American names to make it easier.”

Annika/Annabelle laughs. “Nothing here is authentic. You can be anything here since nothing’s genuine.”

I’m not exactly sure that’s a good thing, but I guess Annika knows a lot more about it than I do.

When Annika approaches the bar, a sea of boys and men getting drinks part to let her through.

“I’ll have a vodka soda,” she says. “Do you know what I miss from Minnesota?”

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says with a shrill laugh.

As much as I love New York, I can’t imagine not missing at least parts of Broken Spoke. But if you want to make it, maybe that’s how it has to be.

A lady in a fuchsia skirt with a tangerine blouse taps Annika.

“I’m with
W
magazine. We’re taking some sound bites from this party for our magazine. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure,” Annika says politely and motions for me to stand by her.

“What’s it like for people to say that you are the next big thing?”

“Flattering,” Annika says and gives a smile I haven’t seen before. It’s more controlled, as if she’s hiding something.

“How’s it having to hang out with hot guys all day?”

“Well, luckily, we spend most of our time in an ice arena, so that helps me keep my cool.”

The lady laughs a little too hard. I imagine that’s not the first or last time Annika will use that line.

“I read that you were discovered at a mall. You must be a natural since you’ve never studied acting.”

Annika immediately freezes up and bites the corner of her lip. “I believe the scout saw potential. I have been taking acting classes with Stella Adler Studio for over a year, so I feel pretty confident in my abilities. Thank you so much for interviewing me.”

The lady finishes writing down her notes, her photographer snaps a picture, and they both walk away.

Annika faces back toward the bar and finishes her drink in three big pulls through a tiny straw. “That’s the thing about being an actress—you never stop acting. You always have to maintain that persona. Annabelle is Annika now,” she says. “Acting’s really the only way to get through New York. Trust me, I used to be just like you.”

I try not to take that as an insult. After all, of everyone I’ve met in New York, Annika and I probably have the most in common. If she knows the road to success here, I’m ready to listen.

I look around at the waiters passing around fancy, unidentifiable appetizers (or hors d’oeuvres in NYC speak) and a marble staircase that must lead to levels of the party that we haven’t even seen yet. By the time I turn back around, Annika’s heading out the door. With one more glimpse, I reluctantly follow her outside.

Annika lights up a cigarette, and I’m glad that she smokes a different brand from Amber.

“Kitsy,” I hear someone cry out and turn around to see Waverly, dressed like it’s prom, albeit a
Gossip Girl–
style prom, waiting in the line to get in.

Annika raises her eyebrows at me.

“Hi, Waverly,” I say and walk the distance to meet her.

“What are
you
doing here?” The
you
is definitely accented; perhaps Waverly didn’t mean to do it—although I’d wager she did.

“With a friend,” I say, pointing toward Annika, who waves her cigarette.

Waverly gives her a look of recognition and judgment.

“What are
you
doing here?” I ask, purposely accenting the
you
.

“My mom’s magazine had extra tickets, so she gave me some.”

“Great,” I say. “Gotta go, we’ve got another event. Crazy night,” I lie, taking Annika’s advice about acting. This Kitsy persona is not intimidated by Waverly, who is currently looking at me with a shocked face.

I turn away from Waverly and ask Annika, “Where to?”

“Anywhere but here,” she answers as she stubs out her cigarette with her stiletto.

“Do you care if I text Erik and Tad to meet up?” Annika asks in the cab. Her only direction to the cabdriver was “Take me downtown and quickly.”

I’m saved from answering when my phone vibrates in my purse. Annika watches me closely. “Is that home calling?” she asks, and I know, without checking, that it’s probably Hands, Kiki, or Amber calling.

“I’m sure it probably is,” I admit.

“Don’t answer it,” she says. “Give yourself a break for the night.”

I do feel like I need a rest tonight. I’ll check my phone later just to make sure nothing’s
really
wrong. “Annika—I mean Annabelle—can I ask you something? If you don’t miss anything about home, why do you hang out with Erik?”

“Because he thinks home sucks, too,” she says. “We’re the only two people from there who know that life didn’t begin and end in high school. We never talk about Minnesota. I only told you about it because I could tell that you’re new to this whole New York thing. I wanted you to trust me. I promise I’ll help you blend in here.”

Mrs. Corcoran rarely mentions the Spoke either. Maybe the best way to move forward is to not look back.

Leaning into the front seat, she says with confidence to the cabdriver, “Bleecker and Thompson.”

Hard to imagine she ever lived in a small town where a large otter was the main attraction.

“Okay, here’s the deal. They’re at a bar called The Back Fence,” she says.

“That sounds great, except I don’t have an ID. I’m not exactly legal,” I say, remembering that Annika knows even less about me than I do about her.

Annika slides her French-manicured hand into her clutch and pulls out an ID. “Duh, I’m not legal either. Good thing that we’re not playing ourselves tonight.

“Here, you’ll be Kirsten Fox. She’s my older sister. She’s away at University of Minnesota–Duluth becoming a nurse like my mom. I was planning on going there, too, before I got saved.”

If being saved means leaving a small town, will I be doomed if I stay in Texas?

Examining the ID, I see a slight resemblance between Annika and Kirsten. Or, rather, I catch a slight glimpse of what Annika must have looked like before she became Annabelle, future “it girl,” star of
Iced
. I wonder if the bouncer is going to notice that I’m not a brunette like Kirsten, and that I’m five foot five, not five nine.

Maybe Annika notices my concern because she says, “Just watch the ‘y’alls’ when you talk to the bouncer and maybe throw in a ‘yabetcha’ or two. By the way, Erik is with Tad, so I hope you meant it when you said you didn’t care.”

I shouldn’t care since I do have a boyfriend, I think. But I can’t bring myself to say that out loud. The guilt of calling Hands “my friend” earlier tonight makes me feel like I ate mud.

When we reach the bar, there’s a line out the door. The whole bar seems only about the size of the Corcorans’ kitchen and live music booms into the street from inside.

“They have a table,” Annika says, shimmying through the crowd to the front.

For some reason, nobody stops us from cutting in the line. Maybe everyone’s too drunk, or maybe this is just how it is for people like Annika. The bouncer quickly looks at our IDs before he lets us in. Maybe it’s easier to be someone else than I thought.

Once we’re inside, we spot Tad and Erik sitting at a table. Luckily, with the music, no one can hear my heart, which I can feel pounding at the sight of Tad, who is smiling and waving me over.

Tad’s sitting on a bench and Erik is across from him on a wooden chair. There definitely doesn’t seem to be room for two more. Annika drapes herself over Erik’s lap, and I act casual and give Tad a small wave. Like Annika said, New York is about acting.

“Kitsy Kidd,” Tad says, standing to greet me, “I didn’t think I’d see you after you pulled another Cinderella at the Music Hall.”

I laugh and say, “It’s not Cinderella since you’re clearly no prince.”

The band starts playing “The Weight.”

Tad laughs and asks, “Do you want to go outside for a smoke? It’s getting hot in here.”

He doesn’t wait for my answer but grabs a handful of peanuts from the red basket on the table.

“Free nuts,” he says to me. “Who said there’s nothing cheap in New York? And this place has history. Bob Dylan was allegedly discovered here. Pretty slamming, right?”

Erik says, “Bob Dylan’s from Minnesota.”

“He’s from Hibbing,” Annika says. “But everyone knows that it’s New York that makes anyone famous.”

“And once upon a time,” Tad says, “it was talent.”

I follow Tad out as he weaves a path through the crowd.

He leans up against an ATM to light his cigarette.

“So how did pottery week go? Any more clay explosions?”

I smile. It’s really nice to have someone interested in me—and my art. “Nope,” I say. “Clay’s like New York; you get used to it, and eventually it starts to work with you, not against you.”

“That’s a good way of looking at it, Kitsy,” he says.

As I’m staring at Tad’s cigarette, he catches my gaze. “I hope these don’t bother you. I started after I stopped drinking, but my therapist tells me that’s just habit transference.”

I think how happy I’d be for Amber to transfer any of her bad habits for new ones. I’m so exhausted by her current ones.

“Not at all,” I say, even though I hate the smell of smoke.

Tad nods. “I didn’t know you were friends with Annika,” he says through a cloud of smoke.

“We just met, but she’s been really sweet to me. She just took me to a fancy event at the library. She’s showing me the ropes. Did you know that she’s going to be on a TV show?”

“It was the first thing she told me,” Tad says and not jokingly. “You don’t need to hitch on to her—or anyone’s—star, Kitsy. You’re doing great on your own. Besides, she’s very into the scene, very different from you.”

“What am I like?” I ask impulsively. For some reason, I suddenly want Tad to show me who I am when I’m not in Broken Spoke.

“You’re special,” he answers without missing a beat. “You’re here because you have a passion.”

My heart thumps like horse hooves on pavement.

“I really loved your song, by the way,” I say, ignoring his compliment. “You’re very talented at writing.”

I smile, still holding out on a prayer that it was me who he was singing about. I want to be his buoy.

“It’s just nice to not have to sing somebody else’s songs for once. I probably wouldn’t have gotten to write my own stuff if my record deal had gone through, so maybe everything falling apart was a blessing in disguise,” Tad says as if he’s realizing this for the first time.

He reaches out and brushes a hair from my face, and I don’t pull away.

I wonder if sometimes life-as-you-know-it falling apart can be a good thing. I feel my old life unraveling like a spool of yarn, and I don’t move to catch it. Maybe Annika is right to let her old life go and move on. Maybe I’m letting everything that’s going on in Broken Spoke hold me back from having my best New York experience.

“What
did
happen?” I finally ask, unable to hold back.

Tad steps closer. “Nothing really interesting. My dad died the month after I signed with my label, and I spent all my time drinking instead of working. My label dropped me because I started acting like a rock star,” he says, smirking. “Which is only allowed if you’re actually already a rock star. It was stupid, but I was really young.”