A Long Way From You (18 page)

“Nobody thought that Tad would start writing again. Apparently just last night, he called a practice to work on something new he wrote. Erik told me to come today because it might be something big, although everyone in New York is always saying that.” Annika stands up and watches the boys.

It seems like something big is always happening in New York, which is amazing. In Broken Spoke, it seems like the same things just happen again and again.

“Let’s go stand closer and play the part of a ‘groupie,’” she says, putting quotation marks in the air and swaying to the beat. “Every band has to have some hot groupies, right?”

Being a groupie doesn’t sound all that terrible. Remember, Kitsy, if you are somewhere else, you can become somebody different if just for a moment. Just look at Annika, I bet no one even asks her anymore where she’s from. She acts
so
New York.

With Rider on guitar and Erik on the drums, Tad edges forward, dragging his microphone. “This one . . . this one’s for the girls.”

Annika and I are the only girls in the hall, so I know that this song is at least 50 percent dedicated to me. I silence my phone. It’s like Annika said. It’s sad if you can’t just listen to some music sometimes.

Tad starts out with a similar tune to the “Mockingbird,” the song he sang at my request at karaoke.

Annika squeezes my hand, and I close my eyes to just listen.

I was floating

I was sinking

I was drowning.

I was an anchor.

Pull me up

Raise me up

My buoy

Float me through the waves

Hold me against the current

My buoy

I open my eyes to see Rider and Erik smiling at Tad, who looks down from the stage at me. I close my eyes again.

Let me hold on here

I want to hold on here

Let me rest here

I want to rest here

Let me float here

I want to float here

You are my buoy

You fight the waves for me

You resist the current for me

You save me

Untie me

I want to be untied

Release me

I want to be free

Let me go

I want to swim

When Tad finishes singing, Erik and Rider play a short instrumental ending. When I open my eyes again, everything seems clearer, as if I’m wearing contacts for the first time. Even the dark, dingy music hall seems much brighter.

Annika starts a steady slow clap, and I join her. I’m pretty sure being a groupie is somewhat like being a music cheerleader; it fills me with that . . .
je ne sais quoi
. All my anxiety about skipping the scholarship meeting to watch Tad sing cover songs dissipates. I don’t think it was just a
coincidence
he asked me come listen today
,
the day he performed his first original song in, like, forever. Maybe nothing, including our two fateful first meetings, that’s happened between us has been just
coincidence.
I wonder if coincidence and fate are actually the same thing.

Tad clears his throat and looks around. “I still need to finish the last verse, but what do you guys think?”

“Y’all were wonderful,” I say loudly enough for him to hear me bright and clear over the feedback.

“Yeah, y’all were wonderful,” Annika says, imitating my drawl perfectly. “So what’s it about?”

And I swear this happens: Tad looks down, winks at me, and says, “It’s private.”

Back in Broken Spoke, Corrinne went totally nuts when Rider wrote a song about how good she looked in her Levi’s. It ranged from slightly to moderately annoying every time she started singing “her song,” but for just a moment, I want to imagine that I had something to do with Tad’s song. That maybe somehow that song was not only for me, but also about me.

“Okay, enough of that,” Tad says. “Let’s go back to practicing our bread and butter. Other people’s songs.”

Erik and Rider fake moan and start tuning up to “Jack & Diane.”

“Very cool,” Annika says to me appreciatively. “A long way from Broken Spoke, huh?”

A long way from anywhere I’ve ever been or anything I’ve ever felt, I think. All I can do is nod.

I realize that I need to go when I happen to glance at my watch. I have spent enough time being different, and I need to spend some time being good and get back to the Corcorans.

“Will you tell everyone that I said good-bye?” I ask Annika, who’s found her way back to the bar.

“Sure,” she says. “We should hang out sometime soon. I don’t even know what brought you to New York or what sent you away from Texas. Although I’m philosophically against telephones I’ll ask Tad to text me your number. I know what it’s like to have to fight the small-town-girl thing. I can show you how to leave that behind you.” She gives me a hug.

“That’d be nice,” I say. But am I really ready to abandon everything that’s always defined me?

I people-watch on my subway ride home and I realize that the
underground train
no longer makes me anxious. Score! Back at the apartment, I walk in and find Mrs. Corcoran watching
The Real Housewives of O.C.
I know now where Corrinne gets her love of TV.

“Kitsy!” Mrs. Corcoran exclaims as she pauses the TV. “I feel like we’re ships passing in the night. I’m so busy this summer. I can’t tell you how great it is to just sit back and watch someone else’s life,” she says jokingly and points toward the screen.

I smile and relax. I’m happy to see someone who knows the “real” Kitsy even if she isn’t around often.

“I want to thank you again, Mrs. Corcoran,” I tell her earnestly. “We started pottery week, and the whole experience has been incredible.”

Hopefully, she wouldn’t be disappointed to find out that I’ve been exploring more than just art since I’ve been here.

“Stop thanking me. I’m just so happy to have you here. And, oh! I just remembered today we received an invitation to your exhibition, and I had a great idea. Why don’t you invite your mom to come? Mr. Corcoran has a ton of airline reward miles. Wouldn’t it be nice to show your mom where you’ve been going to school and what you’ve been working on?”

My heart stops—and not in the way that it did with Tad.

“Of course,” I say feebly.

When I first told Amber that I wanted be an artist, she laughed. “If you want to pick an impossible career, why not just want to be an actress? Nobody cares about artists anyway. I can’t even name a single one. All the good ones are long dead.”

That was the last time I seriously talked to Amber about art. Whenever she mentions my art, she calls it “that adorable hobby,” as if it were a phase, like playing with dolls.

“Okay, just have her call me,” Mrs. Corcoran says and unfreezes the
Housewives
. “And Kitsy, I’m here if you need anything,” she calls out above the TV noise.

Even though I have no desire to invite Amber, I nod. Sometimes no matter how hard you try, you still can’t really get away.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: Tuesday July 24

Subject: Re: I need an update.

I don’t know about you, but it feels nice to get away from everything for a while. In New York, my time is all about me—a new experience but I’m digging it. I’m mostly busy doing my art but I’ve also had some really cool New York experiences with random people who live here.

I went to Bagel Bob’s. I’m confused—how can they be so crunchy on the outside and gooey in the inside? Those bagels should be illegal—they’re too good. And why do so many places here only sell Pepsi? Majorly gross.

Did they take your makeup away, too? That’d be a travesty!

Can’t wait to see you!

Chapter 10
How to Make It in New York

I
DROP THE ENVELOPE AND
my backpack at the mailbox and run inside. Amber’s watching Mariah Carey hawk items on QVC and Kiki’s playing with Legos.

I hold the letter up in the air. “I got in!”

Amber doesn’t look up from the TV.

Kiki snaps the last piece into his skyscraper Lego. “Got in where?” he asks.

“There!” I say, pointing to his sculpture. “I got into art school in New York City!”

Amber turns around from her spot at the couch. “Do you think those crystal hoops would look good on me?”

I barely glance at the TV. “I do,” I mumble. “But I don’t think we can fit them into the budget. . . . Amber, did you hear me?”

“Mom, can we all go to New York?” Kiki asks. “I want to see real skyscrapers.”

Amber flips the channel to the Home Shopping Network. “Kitsy isn’t going to New York,” Amber announces. “We can’t even afford hoop earrings.”

“Mrs. Corcoran said she’d pay for me to go. I told you about this—” I say, reading the letter to myself again. I can’t help smiling even if Amber’s being difficult.

“You really want to go to New York? It isn’t easy to go away and come back here,” she says and refills her drink. “Trust me on that. And you’re happy here. You’re popular, you have a job, and a nice boyfriend. Why would you want to mess that up for some silly adventure?”

“Because it isn’t silly to me.”

After I stay late at school Wednesday to practice on the pottery wheel, I head uptown to meet Ford at the International Center for Photography.

Once I’m there, I spot him, standing near the ICP, a large glass building with huge photographs blown up three times larger than life hanging in the windows. Ford is waving at me with both hands.

“Kitsy,” he says breathlessly, “on my way here, I saw them film
Project Runway
on this pier, near South Ferry. I saw Heidi Klum
and
Tim Gunn. All the models were on stilts. I totally could’ve done a better job than some of the designers. I would’ve used taffeta but, like, in a classy way.
And
I saw Eli Manning at the Five Guys on Seventh Avenue; he’s always one of my top picks for fantasy football.”

“You like football?” I ask. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m Texan after all.”

“I
love
football,” Ford says. “Maybe we’ll do a fantasy league together this fall.”

“I think I have enough football in my life,” I say. “But I definitely want to stay in touch, and if you want to see some amazing high school football, you’re always welcome to visit.”

We walk in and Ford pushes ahead of me in line and announces: “I’m buying your ticket. I’m very old-fashioned.”

“Do you know a lot about photography?” I ask.

“Not really, only fashion photography,” Ford says. “But I figured it’d be good to check out some exhibits before we start our photography unit. My parents would be
so
happy if I became a photographer and worked at the
New York Times
. They’re so not on board for me being a designer. They think it’s frivolous. Screw it though. I’m definitely trying out for
Project Runway
once I’m legal.”

“Will your family come to the exhibition?” I ask, thinking about Mrs. Corcoran’s offer to fly out Amber. I still haven’t called her about it.

Ford pulls out his wallet and pays for our admission. “Of course, and I’m sure they’ll give me their very honest opinion. They always do,” he says.

“At least they’re involved,” I say. There are worse things, I think. For instance, not even being sure you want your mother involved.

After showing the guard our tickets, we walk into the main exhibit: a retrospective on photographer Stephen Shore’s work. Along the white walls hang poster-size color photographs.

Ford reads the brochure to me: “Stephen Shore is known for his color work of banal American scenes and objects. Blah, blah, blah. He lived in New York City until he was twenty-three when he went on a road trip photographing less well-documented landscapes.”

Ford gestures toward a photograph of a Chevron gas station. “Why would someone from New York City go traveling to photograph places like
this
?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” I say. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how to get away from places like that and get
here
. “Look at this one. It’s a picture of Presidio, Texas,” I say and point to a photograph of a dusty strip of stores.