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

  “I’m from Texas,” I explain for the fourteenth time that night. “I like your name.” Smile and compliment is my routine for one reason: It works.

  “Iona means island. Your friend Corrinne calls me I-don’t-want-to-know-ya Iona. I’m not completely wowed by her creativity level, but I’m not surprised either. Look around: It’s like looking at whitewashed walls. Even Vladlena blends in. We’re the only ones that stick out,” Iona says.

  Great. So I do stick out, even in Corrinne’s clothes. I want to go back to MoMA where it’s the art, not the people, that’s on exhibit.

  “What medium do you usually work with?” Iona asks me.

  “I mostly sketch,” I answer. “I haven’t had a lot of exposure to other media. Our school budget mainly goes to our football program, so the other programs, like art, get the scraps,” I admit.

  As much as I love football and what it brings to the Spoke, I do wish that the art facilities at least somewhat compared to our brand-new stadium, complete with a scoreboard that looks like it’s out of the twenty-second century. The art room, on the other hand, is more nineteenth century. Calling it outdated is an understatement.

  Iona scrunches her nose and says, “My school doesn’t have a football team. I personally think it’s a barbaric sport, but that’s just my opinion.”

  Maybe if I lived in New York where there were a gazillion other activities to do on Friday night, I’d agree with Iona. But without football, Broken Spoke would be a scary place.

  Iona continues without waiting for my opinion: “My medium is definitely painting. Like me, most students in our class are just taking this Foundation course to learn about other media to enhance their specialties—what they’ll probably major in at art school. Some of the other students are ridiculously talented. I hear there’s one guy who sold out his entire charcoal exhibit before his first show was even over.”

  The only exhibiting I’ve ever done was back on Amber’s refrigerator when she still noticed my work. Cringing, I vividly remember the day she took my family portrait off the fridge after my dad had been gone about six months; I had spent an entire Saturday drawing it. Even though I was eleven, I knew not to try to stop her as she threw it in the trash.

  As Iona goes on about specialties and exhibits, I suddenly feel out of my league. I didn’t realize that most of the other students were already art prodigies. My only specialty is makeup, and I don’t think that’ll impress anyone here unless someone seriously needs a makeover.

  “I’m hoping that I’ll find my specialty over the next couple of weeks,” I say cheerfully.

  “You’ll definitely need to if you want to go to art school. Nearly all of them require extensive portfolios,” Iona warns, raising her dark eyebrows. I find myself wondering what she’d look like with makeup. Even though she’s being an art snob, she’s more refreshing than the other snobs I’ve been talking to. I guess it helps that we have a mutual interest.

  So I decide to continue the conversation: “I’m not planning on going to art school,” I say. “There aren’t any near me in Texas.”

  I’ve spent hours researching art schools, but we’re four hours from Dallas, where the closest one is. It’s just too far. Most likely, I’ll be a day student at the junior college about an hour away.

  Iona stares out the window and still doesn’t make eye contact.

  “Of course you can’t stay in Texas!” she exclaims with a snort. “You’ll have to come back East. Right now, Yale is ranked at the top and there’s Rizdee, of course. If you can’t get into those, maybe you can stay in the South and go to SCAD. Do you not plan to be a professional artist?”

  “I would love to,” I answer dreamily and imagine myself living and working in a funky loft/studio. But then the image of Kiki growing up alone with Amber pushes it out of my mind. I hear myself blurt out, “I can’t. I need to be close to my family. I have a younger brother.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Iona says. “You must be really talented to get into the program with no previous formal art education.”

  “I guess,” I say, worrying that Iona is now pitying me. I didn’t come to New York to be pitied; I get enough of that back home.

  Corrinne snatches my wrist and pulls me away.

  I call over my shoulder, “See you at school, Iona,” but she’s already turned away.

  “No champagne. All out,” Corrinne slurs. Looking toward the door, she hiccups and says, “Let’s get pizza. I’ve got to start packing.”

  We hug Vladlena. Corrinne stumbles and I walk out into the hallway and to the elevator. I’m upset that I didn’t have a camera to take pictures, so I could tell someone about tonight: “I was there once. I was at a party in The Pierre Hotel when I was seventeen.” I’m sure without a picture no one will ever believe me.

  Corrinne directs our taxi to Bleecker Street Pizza, where she orders two slices of pizza. We eat them while sitting on the curb.

  “I miss Texas, Kitsy,” Corrinne mumbles as she finishes her slice. “I feel so over that scene at the hotel. It’s all about outdoing everyone else. It just isn’t fun anymore.”

  “That’s only part of New York, Corrinne,” I tell her as we walk back toward her apartment.

  “Thanks, Kitsy. You’re my best friend. You know that?” Corrinne says.

  Of course I don’t say it out loud, but I’m a tiny bit grateful that she’ll be gone this summer so I can find my own corner of New York.

  We wander down an empty, tree-lined Leroy Street.

  “I’m so tired,” she yawns.

  The Corcorans are still out when we get home.

  Corrinne collapses in her bed in her dress and shoes. I lie next to her, and I start to tell her about Hands, the new quarterback, and Peggy’s crusade to dethrone me, but then I realize she’s already asleep. I pull off Corrinne’s shoes and put the comforter around her. I have a lot of practice doing that at home. Carefully, I take off the clothes that I borrowed from Corrinne and fold them neatly in a pile on a chair.

  After slipping into my pj’s, I walk over to the windows facing the Hudson River. Under a full moon, it glimmers from the reflected lights. The only sound is the lulling cadence of cars driving down the highway. It’s hypnotizing. I find a scrap piece of paper in the kitchen, and I sit at the window and draw the river and night sky until I’m exhausted. Before retreating to the bed, I search for stars, but I don’t see any.

  “Good night, Kiki,” I whisper. “I’m thinking of you. We’re under the same stars, even if I can’t find them.”

  Chapter 5

  Dorothy, You Aren’t on the Island Anymore

  WHEN CORRINNE FINALLY WAKES UP at noon, I’ve already been awake for more than an hour studying the river scene. It’s now so full of activity that I can barely imagine it’s the same serene place I sketched last night.

  “Corrinne!” I start talking right away. “I saw a helicopter fly by; I think it was a coast guard one. I also saw a real protest march—with signs and everything. And, ohmigosh, people are in such good shape. Runners keep sprinting up and down the river path like someone’s chasing them.”

  “My head feels like it got beat by the champagne demons,” Corrinne groans and rubs her temples.

  I walk to the kitchen and pour Corrinne a glass of water. “How about some fried eggs? I think grease helps a hangover.”

  “How about we order in and watch E!? There are a gazillion places that deliver. We could survive in this apartment without ever leaving.” Corrinne turns on the TV to E!, where Kourtney and Khloe are yelling at Kim.

  With New York City outside, why would anyone ever want to just order in and watch TV?

  After fifteen minutes of being still, I get restless.

  “Hey, Corrinne,” I say. “Do you mind if I go to the Guggenheim?”

  I know Corrinne’s not going to be up for two days of museum-going. One day of it is definitely her max, but I can’t bear to miss an opportunity. The Guggenheim is a lot smaller than MoMA, so it seems like
the perfect museum for an afternoon visit.

  “Don’t you want to veg on the couch with me?” she begs. “And see what the Kardashians will do next?”

  I could be okay never seeing what the Kardashians have done.

  “How about you pack and I’ll go on my own?” I ask.

  “Fine,” Corrinne concedes. “I do need to concentrate on my summer wardrobe. But hurry back, I want my Kitsy-time.”

  When I’m in the lobby, I realize that I forgot to ask Corrinne how to get to the Guggenheim on public transportation. I decide to take a cab, just this one time.

  I catch one going east and climb in. After a while, I can’t help asking the driver’s story. He tells me he’s been driving New Yorkers in cabs for thirty years!

  When the meter hits nearly fifteen dollars, I can feel my wallet shrinking.

  “Sir, how much farther is it?” I ask.

  Reaching toward the meter box, he says, “How about we turn this off? I’m going off-duty soon anyway, and we’re almost there.”

  “Thank you,” I say, both surprised and humbled by his kindness. It must’ve been obvious I was eyeing the meter.

  “No, thank you. It’s refreshing to get a passenger who actually wants to make conversation. So, this your first time at the Guggenheim?” he asks me as we drive up Central Park West.

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “First time in New York. First time out of Texas. I love it—it’s fun to be anonymous,” I add, feeling a certain distance from my former life, even though it’s only been two days.

  “I watched the Guggenheim being built way back when. They finished it the same year I got married—1959. People thought the architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, had missed the mark big-time. Nowadays, it’s hard to imagine Museum Mile without it.”

  He pulls the cab over to the sidewalk.

  In real life, the building looks as if a white, spiraling spaceship landed on the edge of Central Park. The museum itself looks like a piece of art. I can’t wait to see what’s inside if the outside is this incredible.

  I hand my driver a twenty and he smiles at me in the rearview mirror. “Make sure to take the elevator to the top, then work your way down. You want gravity to go with you.”

  Entering the museum, I feel like I’ve found a secret castle filled with something better than treasure. All of the art hang on walls inside the spirals. Heeding the driver’s advice, I pay for my admission and take an elevator straight up to the top.

  When I get to the top, I look down and think about how Kiki would love to drop a penny just to see what would happen. As for me, I love looking down the spiral and seeing the art from the changing distance. With each step I descend, I see the artwork from a different angle. It’s like seeing the same painting in ten different ways.

  In one of the galleries, I stop and listen to a docent talking to a group of tourists. She’s wearing a bohemian skirt and long, dangly beaded earrings. She moves her hands quickly as she describes a dark painting of a lively bar. I completely want the docent’s life.

  “This is the first work Picasso painted in Paris, a new city for him. He painted this at only nineteen. You can feel looking at this painting, he’s near but not in, or part of, this party. Many people say that sometimes it takes an outsider to depict something as it is, not how people want it to be.”

  I think about my night at The Pierre. Although I never thought I’d be able to compare myself with Picasso, I can relate to being an outsider in a strange new city. I never thought that being an outsider might work to my advantage in art, but maybe it will let me see New York in ways that others can’t.

  A little while later, the vibration of my phone interrupts my thoughts.

  Corrinne: We’re on borrowed time. I ordered us Chinese. I sent Ivan to pick you up out front in ten minutes.

  Slowly, I make my way down the ramp. I figure Corrinne (and Chinese) can wait a few more moments. For Corrinne, New York’s museums might be old news. But for me, this might be the beginning of the rest of my life.

  After chowing down on lo mein and attempting to keep up with the Kardashians, Corrinne and I go to sleep.

  I don’t hear Corrinne’s alarm. Waking me from a deep sleep, she shakes me to say good-bye. We hug tightly, and we promise to make big plans for when she sees me next in exactly twenty-six days, for my last weekend in New York.

  “Remember, all my friends promised to take care of you,” Corrinne says. “You’re my Texan sister. Ask my mom about directions to school. It’s only a few stops away on the subway.”

  Subway? Ohmigosh, I need to take the subway! How am I going to manage New York alone? I can’t believe I put parties and an E! marathon before my education. My best friend is about to leave, I have class in three hours, and I don’t even know where my school is. That’s not like me, especially since opportunities like art school don’t happen to me every day—or ever—until now.

  I kiss Corrinne on the cheek. I don’t say anything because I don’t want her to worry. After all, she’s letting me stay with her parents for the summer. She even told me to wear her clothes and hang out with her friends. She’s done enough for me.

  As soon as Corrinne leaves, I immediately hop in the shower and begin to get ready for my first day of school. Even though I’m apprehensive, I still feel that back-to-school rush. I’ve always been the student who buys her folders and pencils the first summer day they’re displayed in Walmart. I’m also that girl—the one who plans exactly how she’s going to decorate her locker. I always theme it with our school colors, red and gray. Hands would make big fun of me if he saw how giddy I am today, which reminds me that I need to call him. Maybe once I have a routine, I’ll find more phone time.

  When I’m finished getting dressed, I walk into the kitchen. No one is there, but a note lies on the granite kitchen countertop:

  Kitsy,

  I had to run errands. Thank God you’re here. I’d be lonely without any children. Good luck on your first day at school. To get there and avoid the heat, you can take the Christopher Street PATH to 14th Street and walk a few blocks. I drew you a map. Call my cell if you have any trouble. Love, J.J.

  I admire Mrs. Corcoran’s perfect cursive. I find it nearly impossible to imagine that she and my mom knew each other. Any stranger would guess they are from different galaxies rather than the truth: They are both from the same no-stoplight town. I wonder if one day someone won’t be able to believe that I grew up in a small town. I always think “no way” when I hear about a celebrity who grew up in Barely on the Map, Nebraska. Someday, I want Broken Spoke to just be the start of my life rather than my whole life. My experience in New York is a great first step toward that goal.

  I head downstairs, say good-bye to Rudy (who tips his hat to me!), and head off to start my new life as an independent, metropolitan art student. Mrs. Corcoran’s map looks simple enough, and I find the PATH station right away. Two cops guard the entrance, which freaks me out a bit, but I head down the stairs to find the train. A smell, which is more pungent than any from a farm, drifts into my nostrils. I want to plug my nose, but none of the other people on the stairs are reacting. They are just hustling down the steps in their polished business suits, so I figure this is a normal smell—something you deal with for living in the center of the universe.

  I’m about a third of the way down the stairs when a wave of people starts running up the stairs. Trying not to panic, I get pushed into a small corner. I feel invisible as people shove past me. They resemble an angry mob and are coming up both sides of the stairs. Aren’t there rules here like there are everywhere else? Right side goes up, left side goes down. I reckon this is what people mean when they say New Yorkers would steal your firstborn if it meant they’d catch a cab in the rain. Finally, the stairs clear and I’m able to make my way down.

  I know I need to buy a ticket. (“There’s no such thing as a free ride, especially in New York,” Amber told me about five times before I left.) I see two giant computers, and I figure that’s how I bu
y a ticket. I’m pretty proud of myself for being able to navigate the scene so far, especially since I’ve never been on a train above- or belowground before.

  The computer asks me if I speak English or Spanish. Much to my teacher Señor Luiz’s disappointment, my answer is only English, although I did get an A- since I tried hard. The directions seem simple enough: HOW MANY TICKETS DO YOU WANT TO BUY? CREDIT OR CASH? A dollar seventy-five later, I’m in possession of a yellow-and-blue MetroCard. I thought about buying a monthly unlimited card, but it was really expensive and I just wasn’t ready to put down that type of cash on my third day even if it might save me in the long run.

  I insert my card into the turnstile and pass through the gate to the platform. Corrinne is totally correct: I can do this. Just then, a train comes barreling down the tracks. People get off, people get on, and I follow them. Since it’s only two stops, I decide not to even sit down. I hold on to the metal rail, but I grasp lightly because I don’t know whose hands last touched it. When the train roars off again, I find myself jolting back and gripping on to the rail as if it were a Sonic tray and I was Rollerblading over a pothole. After what I think is a pretty long time, the train halts at another station, and I hop off.

  When I look up at the sign, it says HOBOKEN, not 14th Street. I don’t panic: I imagine that some stops have two names, and one acts like a nickname, like how Times Square is also Forty-Second Street. It’s probably like Hands: His name isn’t actually Hands, of course, it’s Clint. No one has called him Clint since his first one-handed catch in the PeeWee League. People still talk about that catch ten years later. It’s part of Broken Spoke history.

  I follow the crowds up the endless stairs. No wonder New Yorkers are so skinny! The subway is more exercise than cheerleading practice. Only when I’m at the top of the stairs do I wonder if there’s more than one train. What if I just went the wrong way? I look at my watch, and my pulse slows. I do have almost two hours. I can walk if I have to . . . and maybe this isn’t even the wrong stop. I need to calm down.