A Long Way from You (Where I Belong) Read online

  I look at Mrs. Corcoran. Back in Broken Spoke, she did the jeans-and-cowboy-boot thing. At eight a.m., she’s wearing kitten heels, a black skirt, a white blouse, and white pearls. I’m guessing Mrs. Corcoran doesn’t wear her bedazzled rodeo top in New York.

  Mrs. Corcoran ushers us through the door. Mr. Corcoran, gray in a Clooney-handsome way and dressed in a suit, stands in the kitchen and drinks a cup of coffee.

  “Kitsy,” Mr. Corcoran says and shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you. Happy to have you here this summer. It would be lonely with both kids at camp. I still can’t believe Tripp suckered us into skateboarding camp in California. I’m pretty sure there aren’t any colleges looking for skateboarders to fill their athletic rosters. Wish he would do crew like his old man, but alas.”

  “Dad, calm down, he’s prepubescent,” Corrinne says. “Besides, I’m glad he’s slowing down on the chess hobby. That was even hurting my PR.”

  Tripp is Corrinne’s thirteen-year-old little brother, although sometimes I doubt that they are blood relatives since “he’s all sugar, and she’s all spice” as my nanny always said before she died. Nanny in Broken Spoke is another name for grandma, and not a paid, usually foreign, substitute mother, as Corrinne explained to me it is in New York.

  “Unfortunately, my husband has to go to work even though it’s Saturday,” Mrs. Corcoran says. “But his business is picking up, which is a good thing.”

  Corrinne pulls me away from her parents.

  “Mom,” she whines, “I’m giving Kitsy a tour. We’re on a tight timetable.”

  “Heavens,” Mrs. Corcoran says and steps out of the way. “Let Kitsy rest, Corrinne. She’s here for art school, not to be a guest on The Corrinne Corcoran Show.”

  As Corrinne and Mrs. Corcoran bicker, I’m hypnotized by the apartment’s views of the river. I walk straight up to a row of windows.

  “Ohmigosh,” I say. “There’s a cruise ship, The Princess. Just like the one on the commercials with the cheesy music. I’ve always wanted to take a cruise. Oh, look at the people running and biking on that path. And over that way, there’s a park just for dogs!”

  Every way I look, there’s something else to take in.

  Mrs. Corcoran walks up next to me and puts her arm around my waist. “That’s what I missed the most in Texas: the river. Wait until you see tugboats, Kitsy. They come in all different colors, red, blue, yellow. The river is captivating. I don’t know how I grew up without having water nearby.”

  I’m sure after living this fancy life, Mrs. Corcoran probably wonders how she grew up in Broken Spoke at all. To be fair, in the Spoke, there’s one pond, which people do swim in despite the rumors of the swimming nutria aka water rats. Northern Texas is not known for its waters, and southern Texas, by the Gulf, is like a different state since it’s at least eight hours away by car.

  Corrinne grabs my shoulder. “Remember, absolutely no swimming in the Hudson River unless you’re looking to catch a disease or find a dead body.”

  I roll my eyes at Corrinne.

  “Tick tock. Time for me to be the tour guide on, as my mother puts it, The Corrinne Corcoran Show. . . . I’m not going to lie. I like the way that sounds. Catchy!” She throws open her arms and continues, “This is our apartment. It’s very modern and minimalist. We have a great room, which is a combination of a living and dining room, and our kitchen is what you call a galley kitchen. Now on to my fortress,” she says and whisks me through the hallway.

  “My room!” Corrinne opens the door. Her room is about the size of my entire house, which is really just a trailer with a foundation dug underneath it.

  “Corrinne, I thought New York apartments were small,” I say softly.

  “New construction,” Corrinne explains and opens a closet door. “Thank God for new construction. Some of my friends live in old prewar places that don’t even have walk-ins. I mean Holy Holly Golightly, even my dorm room at boarding school has a walk-in.”

  I ignore Corrinne’s walk-in comment because her closet blinds me. Dozens of dry-cleaning bags hang in a row and all the clothes are organized by color.

  “Corrinne?” I ask. “When did you get all these clothes?”

  Corrinne looks a bit embarrassed and shuts the door.

  “Oh, it was all in storage when I was in Texas,” she says and claps her hands together. “Time’s up. Get dressed. We have reservations soon. And ‘mi ropa es su ropa.’”

  I raise my eyebrows and try to translate.

  “I’m totally forgetting my Spanish since I’m back in Latin class. I think I said my clothes are your clothes. Anyway, you get yourself dolled up.”

  I follow Corrinne’s commands and set my cell phone on Corrinne’s dresser. “I’ll call nights and weekends,” I promised Hands, Amber, and Kiki. “It’ll be cheaper.” I didn’t add that it would be easier, too.

  We’re standing outside Morton Square when Corrinne says, “You know that saying about taking off one accessory before you leave? That’s not true in New York. You put another on.” I’m in a white button-down dress, to which Corrinne has added her own rope belt and warfare-type sandals.

  I’ve never heard that expression, but I nod.

  “Guess where we’re going?” Corrinne asks excitedly.

  I hold my breath and pray that it’s not shopping. I need to save my money, not blow it on the first day. I imagine shopping in New York with Corrinne qualifies as an Olympic sport, one that I am definitely not trained or sponsored for.

  Before I can even try to guess, Corrinne answers: “MoMA! I love you enough to go to a museum.” She pronounces museum in the tone most would refer to a Porta-Potty, but I ignore her pitch as I feel my cheeks get red with excitement. While I knew this would be the summer that I’d finally go to MoMA and see the works from my very worn used book MoMA Highlights: 325 Works from the Museum of Modern Art in real life, I didn’t think it would happen today. I also never dreamed that it’d be Corrinne who would take me.

  This is so going to be the best summer of my life.

  “I knew that’d get a big smile. I bet you wish you had your pom-poms. You could give me a cheer. M! O! M! A! Rah, rah!” Corrinne sings and shakes an invisible pom-pom. “We’ll walk down to Houston to get a cab. Too hot for the subway,” she says. “And Kitsy, remember, it’s pronounced Hows-ton, not Houston like the city. I don’t want you to end up back in Texas.”

  I don’t tell Corrinne that I actually did pack my pom-poms, but I only brought them because they remind me of the Mockingbirdettes and the best parts of home. Right now, I don’t need any props to help me channel excitement because I’m headed to the Super Bowl of art museums: MoMA. Touchdown!

  Corrinne hands a twenty-dollar bill to the cab driver. I try to pay but she pushes my hand away.

  “I know what minimum wage in the Spoke is,” she mumbles, referring to her job as a stable hand in Texas.

  MoMA is a large glass building; I immediately recognize it from my book. The street’s already bustling with both car and pedestrian traffic. I’m amazed that people can walk right by this place. How can they keep moving on, knowing that the great works of Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, and Frida Kahlo are housed inside? If I lived here, I’d have to stop in every time I passed by. Then I remember that, as of today, I do live here! I’m definitely still waiting for the jolt.

  Corrinne grabs my arm and pulls me in through the doors. She holds out her iPhone. “Kitsy, I’m sorry, but I have to do this.” She sets her iPhone timer for two hours. “We have lunch at the museum restaurant at one. And I know you won’t agree, or at least not until you try it, but ninety percent of the point of going to this museum is eating at the restaurant. If I don’t give a time limit, you’ll still be in here when I get back from camp.”

  She’s probably right. This place is sure to be my cloud nine on earth. Corrinne always says her fantasy mental happy place is in Nantucket wearing a Hervé Léger bandage dress while hanging out with her horse, Sweetbread, but I never could figure ou
t where mine would be. But now I know: MoMA on West 53rd Street is my mental happy place. I’ll pretend to visit here long after I’m back in the Spoke.

  “First,” Corrinne says, getting down to business, “we buy tickets, then we go to the museum shop where I’ll explain the rest of the details. I already have this all planned out, not that you’re surprised by that.” Planning, plotting, and scheming are three of Corrinne’s favorite activities.

  At the ticket counter, Corrinne buys us two student tickets. They’re fourteen dollars apiece, so I promise myself to soak in as much as I can since I can’t afford to come back often. Corrinne walks me into the gift shop and straight over to the postcard rack, which she spins like a contestant on Wheel of Fortune.

  “Pick four,” Corrinne commands as she stops the rack’s spin. “Four that you must see now, and we’ll visit those and only those. You’ll have time for the rest with the artsy friends you’ll meet at school. I’m sure you guys will come here and be artsy together. Artsy, artsy, artsy,” Corrinne sings. Corrinne’s interests are fashion, horses, and boys.

  “Okay,” I say, laughing, “I’ll play, but I have a book on MoMA, so I know already which ones to pick. Plus, I want to see the ones that aren’t in my book and the ones that are here on loan from other museums.”

  Gently, Corrinne places her hand over my mouth.

  “There it is,” she says. “A Kitsy Monologue. Tick, tock.” She releases my mouth and wipes her hand on my dress. Ew!

  Focusing, I scan for my four favorite works. Corrinne takes the cards from me and moves to the checkout line to buy them.

  “Souvenirs,” she explains. “Don’t forget that a good tourist always buys them. It’s a vital part of our city’s economy. We need to get you an I ♥ NEW YORK shirt. Not that I’ll let you wear it in public, but your brother will want one.”

  Corrinne’s right; Kiki would want one. For a second, I wish he were here, too. But it’s one thing to take care of him in Broken Spoke, and it’d be a whole other thing to do it in New York City. I definitely would need to invest in a kid-leash.

  “Let’s get a map,” Corrinne says. “I could do Bendel’s with a blindfold on, but here I need some directions.”

  I don’t ask what Bendel’s is. Knowing Corrinne, I’m sure it’s a fancy store. I also don’t tell Corrinne that I’ve done the MoMA online tour about ten times, and I follow the museum on Twitter. I know that there are six floors, that The Starry Night is on the fifth floor, that photography’s on three, and the big installations are on two and five. I let her continue on her choose-your-own-museum-adventure because it’s fun, and it’s kind of her to do.

  Corrinne looks down at the first postcard, Gold Marilyn Monroe by Andy Warhol. She smiles. “I would’ve, like, totally wanted to be an artist’s muse if I lived in the sixties,” Corrinne says and locates the work on her map. She pauses. “Too bad that Rider ended up being a loser. I could’ve been his music muse. I still can’t believe that he’s living in New York for the summer. At least he’s in Brooklyn. I wouldn’t want to run into him. Promise me you won’t call him, Kitsy? I can’t believe that he’s playing with an actual New York band.”

  “Sure,” I answer, “I’m not here to hang out with people from home anyway—and definitely not the ones who were mean to you! I want to meet new people.”

  Corrinne keeps talking, but I’m not really listening—because I see it. Against a gold backdrop, much bigger than I thought it’d be, is Andy Warhol’s portrait of Marilyn Monroe. It’s as if she’s fading away into the gold.

  “Corrinne,” I say. “It’s her. Do you know what Warhol said about her? ‘I see Marilyn as just another person.’ Isn’t that beautiful?”

  “It might be beautiful, but it is a total, mammoth lie,” Corrinne says. “No man, even if he was gay, saw Marilyn as just another woman.” She sticks out her chest and asks, “What size boobs do you think Marilyn had?”

  Looking away from Corrinne, who has cupped her chest with her hands, I get close enough to touch it. “That’s the thing. He didn’t use a photograph of her body, just a headshot.”

  Corrinne’s not listening; she’s already locating the next stop on the map. I give Marilyn one last look and chase after my friend.

  Next up is Map by Jasper Johns. Map, which is painted with only primary colors, looks more colorful than a rainbow. I never knew that in person you have to stand three feet back in order to take it all in. It’s that big.

  I study Map and count in my head: I’m, at the very least, seven states away from Texas. I look around and see the other museumgoers, some in chic clothes, some speaking foreign languages, some with sketch pads. Wait, only seven states away? It feels farther.

  “Next,” Corrinne says in a bored voice. “I don’t get this modern art thing, Kitsy. The piece of art next to Marilyn was a giant fan. How’s that art? Couldn’t you just say everything is art? Is Facebook art?”

  I mull it over. “I think you could argue that Facebook is art, and that we’re all creating multimedia self-portraits of ourselves.”

  Corrinne exhales and hands me the stack of postcards and the map. “I never realized what a nerd you were. Those pom-poms and cheerleading outfits were awesome disguises. Very Double-O-Seven of you. Maybe you should be the next Bond Girl. How about you do the rest on your own? I know that you’ll enjoy it more. I’m going back to the gift shop to practice my passions: browsing and charging. Meet me at the restaurant on the first floor at one o’clock sharp for our reservation,” she says with a big grin.

  I let Corrinne go because it makes sense. She likes to move quickly, use her iPhone, and talk loudly. Although this is my first real museum visit, I know that’s not proper etiquette. Dear Abby, who I read in the Spoke Star, would have a field day with Corrinne.

  Next up is Georgia O’Keeffe’s Abstraction Blue, a watercolor of blues and purples. I’m glad that Corrinne’s not here because I wouldn’t want her to ask me to explain it. I’ve looked at it a thousand times in my MoMA book, but I don’t know what it is or what it means. When I found out that I was coming to New York, I Googled O’Keeffe because Madame Williams told me she once lived in Texas. I found out that she taught in a public school in Amarillo, which really isn’t any bigger or better than the Spoke. Later, Georgia O’Keeffe was discovered in New York. I’d like to be discovered here. Or at least be recognized. I look at my watch: Tick, tock, got to keep moving.

  I’ve saved The Starry Night for last. Approaching the gallery, I can already tell which painting it is because there’s a large crowd gathered around it as if it were a celebrity and the crowd the paparazzi. Now isn’t the time to be meek, I tell myself as I maneuver around the flock and edge myself into a corner spot with a perfect view. I go into a daze staring at and absorbing the palette of blue, green, and yellow swirls that make up the painting of a village at night. Even after memorizing every detail from the reproduction above my bed, the real thing still seems completely different.

  Next to me, I notice a young guy with a faint five o’clock shadow wearing a fitted blue flannel. Objectively, he’s totally hot, so Corrinne’s going to be mad she missed spotting him, even if he’s wearing a flannel in July. I turn away and try to figure out Van Gogh’s techniques. Dissecting and replicating is how I’ve taught myself to do art, so it’s always what I focus on.

  “You look stunned . . . like you’ve seen a ghost,” I overhear someone male say. I turn and realize the hot guy in the blue flannel shirt is staring directly at me.

  I smile happily. There are friendly New Yorkers despite everyone’s warnings.

  “It’s just pretty cool to see the real thing after looking at so many reproductions of it. None of them did it justice, not even close. The Starry Night has a fourth dimension or a sixth sense or something. There’s definitely something magical going on.”

  “I agree,” he says with a smile. “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid, and it still blows me away.”

  Wow, I think, a cute guy who’s
a regular at MoMA. He’d totally be my fantasy if I didn’t already have Hands and I wasn’t from Texas.

  I wave my index finger. “Did you know that Van Gogh sold only one painting in his life?” I ask.

  The guy shakes his head. “No, but I did know that Van Gogh became famous only after he died. I guess it took everyone a while to appreciate his unique style. I read that he painted The Starry Night at an insane asylum.”

  Even though I knew all that, I smile and nod, attempting to continue my one and only discuss-art-at-an-art-museum convo with anyone, not to mention a cute guy. As I’m about to introduce myself, I look at my watch and realize that I’m now five minutes late to lunch with Corrinne, which is going to cause her to flip out.

  “Nice talking to you!” I blurt out. I give The Starry Night and Art Boy one last look and dash away. I think I hear him say something after me, but I’m probably just imagining it since I do kind of want to skip lunch and instead talk with this guy who gets it all afternoon.

  I fly down the stairs toward the restaurant. The cafeteria I spotted on the second floor would have been perfect, but Corrinne told me earlier that she made reservations at this place—The Modern—weeks ago. She said that most of the people who eat there don’t even visit the museum. That’s hard for me to believe, but I know not everyone loves art like me. Hands would definitely choose to go to the NFL Hall of Fame in Dayton, Ohio, way before he’d elect to visit Manhattan.

  When I arrive at The Modern, the first thing I see is a beautiful crystal bar with black leather stools. I feel immediately underdressed. Corrinne’s shoes start to feel like I’m wearing actual artillery, not gladiator sandals, and I’m worried that I’ll trip. Corrinne waves at me from a round table with crisp, white linens. This is undoubtedly the nicest place I’ve ever been to.

  I’m about to become a lady who lunches.

  “You have a museum glow to you. It looks strangely similar to a post-make-out, rosy face,” Corrinne says as a waitress pulls out my chair. I try not to stiffen, but I have never had a woman pull out my chair. Thanking her, I sit down with the grace of a bull in a china shop.