A Long Way From You (23 page)

“I’m sure the whole Hat Trick would love to see you back in New York. By the way, it’s been really nice seeing a whole other side of you in New York. I never even knew you liked art,” Rider says and reaches out for a hug. “Don’t be a stranger,” he adds.

Before I turn to leave, I say, “We grew up together—we could never feel like strangers.”

From her perch at the bar, Annika whispers to the both of us, “You would be totally surprised about that.”

Neither Rider nor I say anything in response.

Winking, Annika says, “Can’t wait to see how I look in the photos. See you later, Sexy Texy.”

I decide to take the subway home and on my walk there, I think about what Annika said. Did she mean that Rider and I will change so much that we’ll feel like strangers to each other? Or did she mean that one day I’ll feel like a stranger to the person I am now?

I’m on the F train one stop away from West 4th Street, where I need to get off, when I realize I forgot my camera, which belongs technically to Parsons, at the bar. I begin to sweat, knowing there would be no way I could replace it, not to mention that all my photos are on the memory card. My being careless tonight could ruin the whole summer. Frantically, I run off my train and head back to the Mercury Lounge. I cross my fingers and pray my camera will be there. I can’t afford to lose it.

A small crowd is still there, but I don’t see guys from the band or Annika anywhere. The bartender spots me and waves me over.

“Your friends are in the green room,” he says. “I gave them your camera. Got to be careful, darling. This is New York.”

“Thank you,” I say breathlessly and ignore the fact that he’s pointing out how, after three weeks, I still don’t blend in here.

I knock and then walk into the green room and see Annika with her long legs wrapped around a lanky, shaggy-haired guy on a dingy couch.

“Ohmigod,” I say, turning around to face the door. “I’m so sorry, y’all. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. Just forgot my camera.” I’m talking quickly because I can’t bear to think about who the shaggy-haired guy with Annika could be.

“Kitsy, calm down. No big deal. It could have been a lot worse if you came ten minutes later,” Annika says lazily.

I turn around and meet Tad’s eyes.

“I just need my camera,” I say softly, trying to keep my voice calm and unaffected. Annika’s not the only one who can act.

Tad quickly unwinds himself from Annika and brings the camera to me. His fingers briefly touching mine before I pull away.

Didn’t either of them
think
I’d come looking for it?

“You okay, kid?” he asks me. Then, “Hey, I never realized how I call you
kid
and your last name is Kidd. That’s funny,” he mumbles but no one laughs.

I just stand there for a second staring at a smear of Annika’s too-red lipstick on the corner of Tad’s top lip. I want to wipe it off just like I want to erase what just happened. A part of me wants to forget New York and go back to how everything was before, when nothing was uncertain and I was safe.

“I’ve never been better,” I say and snatch my camera from Tad.

Heading for the door like the dogs are after me, I hear Tad say to Annika, “Maybe one of us should go after her.” I realize just how wrong I’ve been. I’m a kid to him. Just a tourist kid.

Once I’m outside in the hall, I stop holding the tears in my eyes. It’s too hard. They fall quickly and smear my makeup.

“Kitsy. Wait!” I hear Annika call from the doorway. The pack of smokers turn to look at her. Their eyes fixate on her like wolves on prey. She ignores them and walks up to me.

“Annika, I thought there was something called Minnesotan nice,” I say impulsively. “Isn’t, like, everyone from Minnesota supposed to be nice?”

“No, they aren’t, Kitsy,” she says slowly and keeps some distance between us. “Just like not everyone in New York is an asshole.”

“You
knew
I liked him,” I manage to spit out.

Annika shakes her head and takes the last cigarette out of her pack. “Nope, you
never
said you liked him. And even if you had, that doesn’t matter. You have to look out for yourself because no one else is going to, Kitsy. Besides, you’re going home in a week. You’re not here for some boy,” she says, speaking more softly than before. She gestures to my camera.

“So you did me a
favor
? Where I’m from, we don’t call that a favor. I don’t know how they say it in Minnesota, but in Texas, we’d call you as crooked as a barrel of snakes.”

Annika rolls her crystal-blue eyes. “You’re
on vacation
, Kitsy,” Annika says, looking back toward the lounge. “This is a temporary break from your life. You get to go back. Why don’t you go home and confront whatever you’re running away from?”

“I thought you told me to
never
go back,” I say. “You kept telling me to look forward, not look backward.”

All of a sudden I don’t even care about Tad or Annika anymore. I’m just really, really confused.

“We’re different, Kitsy. I see that now. I can tell that Tad cares about you, but he thinks of you as a kid. Because in the grand scheme of everything, you are. I can’t remember any guy liking me without thinking he’s going to get something for it.”

It’s time to go home. I turn around, and say, “Maybe you should go back to being a brunette. I bet you had gorgeous brown hair.”

“My hair color isn’t up to me anymore . . . and Kitsy, if I had to do it all over again, maybe I would’ve never come here.”

When I start walking toward the subway, I hear Annika call after me. But I think she’s talking more to herself than she is to me.

Chapter 13
Taking Care of Baggage

W
HEN
I
RETURN TO THE
Corcorans’, I’m ready for a long bath in Corrinne’s giant bathtub. I need to be alone and spend some time reflecting on what just happened. I expect the apartment to be empty, so I’m startled when I see Mrs. Corcoran in the kitchen sitting on a counter stool and sipping a glass of wine.

“There you are!” Mrs. Corcoran exclaims. “I’ve been hoping you’d come home because I wanted to know if you’d like to go to the
quinceañera
with me tomorrow.”

If Mrs. Corcoran notices my smeared, definitely-not-waterproof eyeliner, she doesn’t mention it.

I stiffen my back and give the biggest smile I can muster. “I thought you couldn’t go,” I say, remembering the disappointment on Maria’s face when she read a note from Mrs. Corcoran saying just that.

“I couldn’t,” Mrs. Corcoran says. “We had a company dinner to attend, but I backed out at the last minute. You’re able to juggle so many balls and always have your priorities straight, so I thought I should take a page from you.”

Normally, I’d agree with Mrs. Corcoran, but the scene back at the Mercury Lounge is making me think that I wasted a lot of my precious time and energy on a project—and a person.

“I’m not sure that’s true,” I admit. “But thank you for thinking that.”

“So you’ll come?” Mrs. Corcoran asks hopefully.

Although I would much rather crawl up into a ball and stay there, I nod. It would mean a lot to Maria and Mrs. Corcoran if I did attend.

When I get home from school on Thursday, Mrs. Corcoran is waiting for me and shoos me with her hands. “Go ahead and change quickly. We’re already running late!”

When I change and return to the kitchen, Mrs. Corcoran has some of my older photographs of Hipster Hat Trick lying out in front of her on the counter. I wish she’d put them away. I hate seeing Tad looking up from his guitar at me. The photographs look even worse than the first time I saw them. Professor Picasso was right—it really is hard to take pictures of people performing. They look like they’re playing rockers in a low-budget movie. No emotion looks genuine.

Mrs. Corcoran sees me looking and stops flipping through the photos. “I hope you don’t mind, but I saw these on the desk. They’re really good. When I modeled a million years ago, half the photographers I worked with didn’t have half the sense of light that you already do.”

“Thanks, but it was a stupid project,” I say. I know that it didn’t come close to anything original. Tad was totally right; taking photographs of an almost band is nearly as much of a cliché as
being
an almost band.

“I’m going to find something new,” I say out loud. I thought about it all last night and today. Saying it to someone out loud feels like a relief.

“Well, you’re very talented. I’m sure whatever project you pick next will reflect that, and, ideally, you, too.” Mrs. Corcoran rummages through her purse and pulls out eyeliner and shakes the tube. “It’s been a while since I’ve worn any fun makeup. And since you are Miss Estee Lauder, I wanted to get your help.”

“Sure!” Even after a bad night, something about doing makeup feels cathartic. I apply my dotting trick to give Mrs. Corcoran a serious feline eye.

“I used to wear this all the time as a teenager,” she says, admiring herself in the entryway mirror. “This is going to be fun.”

Before we leave, I grab my camera off the counter. Maybe I’ll find my new project tonight!

We take a cab to Coney Island and, after a long trip, we’re dropped off in front of the Shrine Church of Our Lady of Solace.

“First, we’ll attend a Mass, then go to the party.
Quinceañeras
are not just parties to celebrate turning fifteen, but they are also a religious event,” Mrs. Corcoran explains.

“This is way different from that MTV show
My Super Sweet Sixteen
. I don’t imagine Esperanza will land via helicopter at the church.”

“Thank God for that,” Mrs. Corcoran says. “Some of Corrinne’s classmates’ parties were sickening in their excess. One boy received a Hummer even though he lives in Manhattan and doesn’t have his driver’s license. It all becomes a total competition between the parents to see who can throw the best party.”

“A little different from parties at the field?” I ask.

Mrs. Corcoran smiles. “I loved hanging out at the field. I still miss it.”

“I miss it, too. I’m actually looking forward to parties there this fall,” I add. As exciting as New York nightlife is, there’s something special about partying with green grass under your feet.

After Mass, Maria finds us on the church’s steps. “Fiesta time!” Looking at Mrs. Corcoran with a smile, she adds, “Thanks for coming. It was such a wonderful
sorpresa
. I think of you as family. I still remember Corrinne crawling all over while I cleaned. It’s too bad that she couldn’t come, but she sent a great replacement in Kitsy.”

We walk behind the giant group of Maria’s family and friends a few blocks to a large banquet hall called Manny’s. Inside, a small mariachi band plays and a DJ is setting up. Hanging from the ceilings are beautiful pink and blue paper lanterns, in the same tones as Esperanza’s blue taffeta dress. The smell of Mexican food wafts through the hall, and my stomach audibly growls.

Mrs. Corcoran takes my hand and says, “Let me introduce you to Esperanza.”

We walk over to where Maria, her husband, and Esperanza are greeting guests. Mrs. Corcoran hands Esperanza a thick envelope, and I feel embarrassed that I don’t have a gift.

“Kitsy,” Mrs. Corcoran says, “meet Esperanza.”

Politely, we shake hands. “I love your dress and tiara,” I say because I really do, not just because it’s part of some routine of mine.

“Thank you! I hope you’ll take a lot of photos of my party. My mom keeps telling me how good you are at photography. She wants me to get a hobby. All I hear is Kitsy this, Kitsy that,” she says with a laugh.

“I’d love to photograph it. It’ll be my gift. This is all so beautiful, I’ve never been to anything like it.”

“Don’t worry, J.J.,” Maria says, looking at Mrs. Corcoran. “The whole family pays for the party, so I’m not bankrupt. The godmother pays for the dress and cake, my family pays for the band and alcohol, and we pay for the food, but I cooked most of it. Of course, I’m always up for a raise.”

Mrs. Corcoran blushes. “You know that I just gave you one, Maria.”

They both laugh.

I think it’s really cool how the whole family chips in; it reminds me of community (usually football-centric) events in the Spoke.

The DJ announces that the dancing will begin, and the guests gather around the perimeter of the dance floor.

Esperanza, along with eight boys around her age dressed in tuxedos, perform three original dances. It’s like
High School Musical
but with way cooler outfits and Hispanic Zac Efrons.

Then the boys leave the dance floor and Esperanza dances to a final song with her best-loved doll, a very worn Raggedy Ann Doll.

Maria comes over to Mrs. Corcoran and me and whispers, “This is the symbolic moment where she crosses over, leaves her toys behind, and becomes a woman.”

During that very sweet last song, I see both Maria and Mrs. Corcoran wipe away tears. I wonder if Esperanza feels any more grown-up tonight than she did before. I know I’m starting to feel different after my summer in New York; it’s definitely made me realize a lot. Even though I’ve always considered myself mature, this summer has pushed me to grow up even more.

After everyone applauds Esperanza’s performance, the song “Empire State of Mind” comes on and everyone rushes the dance floor. In less than a second, the party begins to resemble the typical party I’m used to. I guess our worlds aren’t that different after all.

Mrs. Corcoran laughs and goes to get a glass of sangria, and I start taking some photographs of the dance-floor scene.

Maria comes up and puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to miss having you around.”

“And I’m going to miss your cooking!” I joke, snapping a photo of her laughing. I have a feeling that my photos are turning out really well tonight. Nobody’s performing—including me.

“That better be a good picture. I’ll miss you, Kitsy—and your art. I saw some of it when I was cleaning up. You have a gift,” Maria says. “You seem so very grown-up, Kitsy. You already know what you want to do. That’s unusual. Sometimes, you remind me of me. Keep following your dreams even if you get off course.”