A Long Way from You (Where I Belong) Page 2

  Considering my own parents’ situation, I’ve never thought about being married and getting saved in the same breath.

  “What a beautiful ring.” Talk and compliment. And then repeat.

  “Thanks, darling. Are you meeting your man in New York? Will you be wined and dined?”

  I don’t bother to tell this woman that the only wining and dining I’ve done is “borrowed” Arbor Mist with some BBQ, and that I’m only seventeen.

  “No, ma’am. I’m taking a course at Parsons. It’s an art school,” I say proudly.

  The closest I’ve ever been to Parsons before this is watching Tim Gunn on Project Runway tell contestants to “make it work.” I can’t believe that I’m actually going to school there. Fierce.

  “Oh, good for you,” the woman says. “You have to have a career these days. Thanks to my generation.” She rolls her eyes as if she’s not thankful for the feminists’ efforts for equal rights.

  Art as a career? Maybe in New York with all of its galleries and museums, but it’s so not possible in Broken Spoke. It could happen only if Madame Williams would finally retire and I became the art teacher. I try to make eye contact with Meredith, the flight attendant, so I can apologize with my eyes for the whole I’m-a-waitress-too comment, but she’s flirting with the Jameson-and-ginger man in 4A.

  The woman beside me pulls her eye mask back down, rests her head against the window, and snuggles up with her black cashmere blanket. “Get some rest,” she mutters. “You’ll need it. You know, New York is the city that never sleeps.”

  I think about pulling out my sketchbook again, watching a bad movie, or asking for another Pepsi. But then . . . I’m not thinking at all.

  I wake up sleeping upright, which is a first for me. The only person I know who sometimes sleeps sitting up is Amber, and I think that’s called passing out.

  There’s a fabulous bacon smell wafting throughout the cabin. The aroma reminds me of weekends at Corrinne’s grandparents’ and brunches at Hands’s, which always beat Cheerios at my place. My watch says it’s only four a.m. Central Time, but I sit up with a hunger. The Lady in (All) Black next to me is reapplying her makeup, using a monogrammed gold compact. Definitely nothing you can buy at our local Piggly Wiggly. But I’ve learned that drugstore makeup is just as good if you know what you’re doing.

  The lady looks at me directly for the first time, then pulls open the window shade. Light floods our seats.

  “Darling,” she says, “switch seats with me. We’re going to fly over Manhattan at sunrise. This is something that you must see. I’m still awestruck by its beauty even after living here for twenty-five years.”

  After some awkward maneuvering, I have my nose pressed up against the window of my new seat. Its imprint leaves a mark that I try to rub away. Right now, the view is houses and more houses but Monopoly-size ones.

  But then I see water, and I spy it: a tiny green statue.

  The lady nudges me and says, “Give me your tired, your poor, / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, / The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. / Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. / I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

  “The inscription on the Statue of Liberty,” I say. “I read about it at the library when I tried to learn everything I could about Manhattan.”

  “Somehow, I think you’ll still end up surprised,” she says. “I’m going to give you an aerial tour of the island of Manhattan. It’s going to be quick because the island is only—”

  “Thirteen miles long.” I’m beginning to like this lady even if she’s a bit un-PC.

  “The green patch—that’s Central Park. There’s the Empire, the Chrysler,” she says, pointing to different skyscrapers. “Oh, that’s the Brooklyn Bridge,” she adds, nodding toward a stunning suspension bridge. “Make sure no one sells that to you.”

  I laugh, but I’m not worrying about anyone trying to scam me. I’ve been waiting for this chance my whole life. I only wish the plane would slow down because I somehow feel that this experience is already going by too fast.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” she says. “It’s better from the ground. By the way, I’m Mary Carter Hubbard. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  I’m happy when Mrs. Hubbard extends her right hand for me to shake. I was worried that her ring would cut my hand.

  “I’m Kitsy. Kitsy Kidd. Thank you for the window seat and for the tour.” Quickly I look away from the window and gobble up the muffin and bacon that have appeared in front of me. It’s free, after all.

  “Good God. I wish I still had your metabolism.” Mrs. Hubbard sips her water daintily as if she’s worried that even water could make her fat.

  The pilot makes a few announcements—and then we start to descend.

  Hands was right: The landing part feels like driving on a dirt road in an old, rickety truck. Real flying was just as much fun as it was in my dreams. I hope the real New York is as good as the one in my dreams, too.

  When we get off the plane, Mrs. Hubbard stops me. “I’m originally from Charleston, South Carolina,” she confides softly, as if it were a secret. “But New York belongs to all of us.” She gives me a small hug, then walks a few steps before she turns around. “Kitsy, make sure you remember this.”

  “Remember what?” I ask.

  “Youth. Savor it.”

  I smile and wave good-bye. I don’t tell her that I haven’t felt young in a long time.

  I text Kiki, Hands, Amber, and Corrinne that I made it to New York. I’m a bit nervous to navigate the taxi thing, but Corrinne said even people who don’t speak English can do it. “Kitsy, you’ll figure it out, even speaking Texan. If you need help, just try to be careful of the y’alls and other Texan-speak, especially all those phrases that no one outside of Broken Spoke understands.”

  I begin following the baggage claim signs with the pictures of suitcases on them.

  As I ride down the escalator, I see a mob of people beyond security. It’s only six a.m.! Most of the crowd is wearing black suits and holding signs. Then I see a giant poster board with a picture of an apple that says KITSY KIDD, TAKE A BITE OUT OF THE BIG APPLE. Then Corrinne, dressed in white linen pants and a black tank top, steps out from behind it.

  Because I can’t help it, I find myself running down the escalator, pushing people out of the way (gently, of course), and grabbing Corrinne in a lasso-tight hug. I figure New York is used to a little aggression anyway. Even though I’ve read that nothing shocks a true New Yorker, people are staring and covering their ears because of our squeals.

  “Kitsy Kidd!” Corrinne exclaims. “Surprise! We’re going to be your taxi. You’re the only person who I’d wake up this early for. I hope you slept on the plane—we don’t have much time.”

  I light up, glad that Corrinne is here and I don’t have to deal with New York by myself quite yet.

  Unfortunately for me, Corrinne is going to be a counselor at a sleepaway horse camp in Virginia this summer and leaves in two days. She’s like a total cowgirl but a preppy one. Corrinne’s going to be in New York with me for only a few days: first this weekend and then my last three days in the city. I’m pretty much on my own other than that. Freaky, but exciting, since I’m in the greatest city in the world, and I only have to worry about looking out for myself.

  “What’s your bag look like?” Corrinne asks. “Tell Ivan.” Corrinne points beside her to a tall man dressed in a black suit and wearing a cap.

  “I’ll go with him,” I say quickly. I borrowed a suitcase from Corrinne’s grandparents. You don’t exactly need luggage unless you have somewhere to travel. And before this, I’ve never had the opportunity to go anywhere outside of Texas.

  “All right,” Corrinne says. “I’m totally back onto coffee. Don’t tell my grandma. You know how she feels about caffeine being the gateway drug. What do you want from Starbucks?” Corrinne points to a green awning with a line that’s already ten people deep.

  “Um, coffee,” I answer, shr
ugging.

  “Oh, Kitsy. I forgot that the Spoke’s like the last place on earth untouched by Starbucks. They should make it like a national preserve. The last frontier, completely unscathed by Frappuccinos!” she broadcasts as if she were an announcer for a travel channel, and dashes off to Starbucks.

  I follow Ivan to the spinning baggage thing. Unlike most of the other bags, which are black wheelies, Corrinne’s grandparents’ faded floral one is easy to spot.

  We find Corrinne balancing her welcome sign and two large green-and-white cups. Immediately, I wish we had asked Ivan if he wanted anything. I’m in New York only two minutes, and I’m already forgetting my manners. While waiting for my bag, I learned that Ivan’s from Bulgaria, where his wife and two kids still live, and he used to be a pharmacist. I guess it’s true when Amber says that I’ve never met a stranger.

  She hands me a massive green-and-white cup. “I got you a venti skinny mocha latte with three Splendas. Memorize that. You need a signature drink. Everyone has one,” she says with Corrinne authority.

  I take the cup from her and slowly sip. It pretty much tastes like a burnt chocolate bar. I don’t say this, of course. Starbucks, like most bad things, probably just takes a few times to get hooked. Amber says she hated her first cigarette; she started at twenty-one, right after I was born. “Got lonely in the house with just you,” she told me once. It’s now seventeen years later and she smokes two packs a day. Hopefully, I don’t get addicted to Starbucks. I definitely can’t afford to be buying fancy, semi-gross coffee every day.

  We follow Ivan to the car. The July air is cool. It feels like the Spoke does in April. I look at the clouds and think it might even rain. Back home, it’s so dry that the bark is bribing the dogs. We could use a little of this New York weather.

  Corrinne squeezes my hand and says, “It’s going to be fabulous. You know that’s East Coast for cool, right?”

  We hop into the back of a black sedan with leather seats. Ivan navigates his way through the mass of taxis, buses, and pedestrians, and then we’re Manhattan-bound. Once I spot the city in the distance, I realize that my life is finally moving at sixty miles per hour in the right direction.

  How fabulous.

  Chapter 2

  Ladies Who Lunch

  AS WE CROSS THE QUEENSBORO BRIDGE, Corrinne launches into a spiel of what she calls EMK: Essential Manhattan Knowledge.

  “Bridges and tunnels,” Corrinne explains. “That’s what you call people who visit Manhattan from off-island. And it’s not meant as a compliment.”

  “Corrinne, since I’m not from Manhattan, am I a bridge or a tunnel?” I ask.

  Ivan and Corrinne both shriek with laughter.

  Corrinne pulls on her seat belt to loosen it. “I’m like having a heart attack, Kitsy. Ivan, do you know CPR? Tell me this town car has a defibrillator!”

  Corrinne stops cackling to explain: “Bridges and tunnels refer to people from Jersey and the boroughs. You, coming from Texas, are a tourist.”

  Corrinne pronounces tourist as if it weren’t a good thing, but I’ve waited a long time to be exactly that—a tourist in New York. And in my wildest fantasies, I didn’t think I’d get to be a tourist and an art student.

  As Corrinne goes on and on, I wish she’d be a tad quieter so I can try to absorb these images to sketch them later. I’d try to draw now, but unfortunately I’ve learned from school bus trips that sketching while in motion makes me totally carsick.

  Corrinne has now launched into a spiel about Williamsburg and how the whole Williamsburg-equals-the-new-cool thing is only true if you’re a celebrity and are hiding out from the paparazzi. Otherwise, it’s still un-cool . . . unless you really like poetry or music that’s supposedly hip just because no one’s ever heard of it. “It’s a weird place,” she says and exhales. “Stick to Manhattan, Kitsy. Everything you need is in Manhattan.”

  Everything you need is in Manhattan echoes in my head. That has always been my hope, and now I have the chance to see if it’s true.

  After about thirty minutes, which I mostly spend with my head hanging halfway out the window like a dog, Corrinne squeezes my hand. “We’re, like, walking-distance close,” she announces and points down the street. “That’s how you measure distance in New York, walking-distance close versus taxi- or subway-distance far. Good thing we’re almost there because I’m out of coffee. I’m totally up to three doses a day. Still can’t believe that Grandma Houston didn’t let me drink coffee in Texas. Truthfully, it’s shocking I functioned there at all without it. I’ve heard about celebrities who’ve had to go to rehab just to wean themselves off it. It can be pretty dangerous just to quit cold turkey like that.”

  I shake my head at Corrinne. I’m pretty sure no one has ever died coming off caffeine, although I’m already anticipating New York withdrawal when I return to the Spoke.

  After Ivan executes an illegal U-turn, we pull up to a beautiful glass building with a gated courtyard. I know from my research that the West Village used to be the home of struggling artists and that now lots of famous and successful artists live here. I already feel inspired to be in the same space as some of my heroes.

  “Morton Square,” Corrinne says, pointing at the building. “Remember that if you get lost. It’s one of the only modern buildings in the West Village, so people will know what you’re talking about.”

  A doorman wearing a crisp green suit opens the gate and welcomes us in. In Texas, men open our doors all the time, but the uniform reminds me that here they’re paid to do it. I feel culture-shock tingles in my neck.

  “Rudy!” Corrinne exclaims to the doorman, who is basketball-player tall. “This is Kitsy, my friend from Texas. Treat her like she’s me . . . but you’re lucky because she is not as much trouble.”

  “You’re one-of-a-kind, Corrinne,” Rudy says and carries my bag to the front door.

  Corrinne takes the bag from Rudy. “I’ve got it from here. Hot, sculpted arms are the new thing.” She flexes her arms like a weightlifter.

  Rudy shakes his head and pushes open the door to the building.

  “Nice to meet you, Kitsy. I’ll be seeing you around.”

  I like the sound of that.

  The inside of the building looks like a hotel. Scratch that, I’ve only stayed at two hotels, and they were technically motels since the rooms’ doors were on the outside of the building: This place looks like a hotel from a movie or a dream. There’s a mahogany front desk staffed by three people. Overflowing flowers in Shrek-size vases sit on the entry tables, and giant canvases hang on the wall. I fight the urge to walk up to the large modern paintings and get lost in them for the morning.

  After I realize that I haven’t said anything since getting out of the car, I look at Corrinne and say, “Pretty,” which sounds lame the second it lands in the air. Pretty is a dirt road at sunset. This is sexy, sleek, not-of-my-galaxy—anything but pretty. Maybe there’s a word in New York-speak that could adequately describe it, but I haven’t learned it—yet.

  I follow Corrinne to the elevator.

  “The city must’ve got your tongue,” Corrinne says. “Or alternately, it’s jet lag. Don’t worry. You know I like talking, too, but I’m excited to hear a Kitsy Monologue. And get the newest gossip on Bubby. First, we’ve got to do the meet and greet with the parents. I can’t believe you’ve never met my dad!”

  Bubby was Corrinne’s Broken Spoke love interest. He’s the star running back, a newspaper reporter, and the son of her mother’s high school boyfriend, Dusty. It was like a total romantic comedy; all it needed was a song-and-dance number.

  “I know Bubby misses you almost as much as I do . . . although he’d never admit to it because you ripped his heart out when you broke up with him three seconds after you rolled up to your fancy boarding school. Hands is worried that all of Bubby’s obsessing over you is going to hurt his football game.”

  Corrinne turns and smiles as if that were good news. “I’m glad I had such an impact,” she says. �
��It’s nice that I can affect people.”

  “Hands isn’t feeling so Team Corrinne,” I tease. “He wants another state ring, so maybe send Bubby a text saying hi once in a while.”

  “I’d do that for Broken Spoke,” Corrinne says seriously.

  Unlike Corrinne, who switches boys with the seasons, I’ve been with Hands for five years and one month, ever since our very first school dance at the end of sixth grade. Of course, we had known each other forever before that. That’s the Broken Spoke way. When we danced to our first slow song, his palms were all sweaty, but I didn’t mind because he said I was the nicest and cutest girl there. He’s still the only boy I’ve slow danced with, and he doesn’t even get sweaty while dancing anymore. I can’t imagine life without Hands. This will be the longest I’ve ever been away from him.

  The elevator door opening snaps me out of my thoughts. We step in and Corrinne pushes 5.

  “Before Texas, we owned the penthouse,” Corrinne says. “When we moved back, we rented this place on five. It’s called getting recessionated. I’m just happy to live in the same building.” She adds, whispering, “Some people had to move to the suburbs. That’s nearly as bad as moving to Texas.” She gives me a gentle nudge.

  “Just joking,” she says, and puts on her I-can-say-anything-and-you’ll-still-love-me smile.

  “We aren’t all lucky enough to be born in the core of the Big Apple,” I gently remind her, and hope that she hasn’t reverted to Corrinne version 1.0, pre-Texas snob.

  The elevator doors open and Corrinne ushers me into 5D.

  Standing in the doorway is Mrs. J. J. Corcoran, better known in Broken Spoke as Jenny Jo Houston, the Spoker who went to Manhattan to model, married a rich New Yorker, and never came back.

  “Kitsy!” Mrs. Corcoran says in a voice that still holds the last threads of a Texan drawl. “Don’t you look gorgeous. Corrinne usually wears sweats when she flies.”