A Long Way From You (9 page)

You’ve never met a stranger, I remind myself. You’re the Mockingbirdette cheerleading captain, I think. You just need to ask someone.

I walk up to a girl who looks about my age. She’s wearing a tight black dress and red acrylic nails and has
big
hair (probably compliments of AquaNet). People say Texans have big hair, but it doesn’t compare to what I’m seeing right now.

“Um, ma’am, can you tell me where Parsons is?”

“‘Ma’am’?” the girl repeats and laughs. “No idea, I went to Rutgers,” she says in an unfamiliar accent that grates on my eardrums.

I’m beginning to think Parsons is not as prestigious or well-known as the glossy catalogue led me to believe. I might as well be asking the way back to Broken Spoke. For a moment, I ponder calling Corrinne or Mrs. Corcoran, but I don’t want them to worry about me or think that I can’t do this. I wish I had one of those expensive GPS smartphones right about now, but there’s not much use for them back home, where I can navigate my entire town with my eyes closed.

I stay standing at the top of the subway stairs, completely unsure which way I should turn. I hope that the third time is really a charm, and I ask a man in a tight, graphic T-shirt and jeans. He’s wearing a big diamond medallion and at least seven gold chains. Men sure like jewelry in New York.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Parsons. To be honest, I’m lost,” I finally admit.

“Parsons?” the guy says, after giving me a once-over. “Isn’t that in Manhattan?”

“Yes,” I answer and stare at him as if he’s Captain Obvious.

“Where are
you
from?” he asks. “Girls ’round here don’t call me ‘sir.’”

“Texas,” I answer. “I’m Kitsy Kidd, pleased to meet you.” I hold out my hand. I’m hoping my personal touch might help get me to my destination.

The guy raises his eyebrows at my hand and grips my fingers lightly. I’m surprised someone with “guns” like his has such a delicate handshake.

“Uh, I’m Kenny DeTito,” he says. “And I’m pretty sure you should be looking for the Parsons over there.” He points across the river to another town with skyscrapers.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Manhattan,” Kenny answers.

“How’s that possible?” I ask. “I was in Manhattan less than fifteen minutes ago, and I took the subway, not a boat.”

“Oh, Dorothy,” Kenny says, laughing. “You’re not on the island anymore. The PATH goes under the Hudson River and to New Jersey. And, see, it’s not as bad as people say.”

“Ohmigosh,” I gasp. “I’ve got to get back. How do I get back there?”

“The yellow brick road,” Kenny says and laughs at his own joke. “No really, you take the PATH again and make sure you get on a train that says to Thirty-Third Street.”

“Thank you,” I say. I’m not sure how something like this could have happened. I’m not only in the wrong place, I’m also in the wrong state. I turn and start to run down the stairs.

“Hey, girl,” Kenny calls out before I reach the bottom. I look back as he yells, “Can I get your digits? Show you how Jersey guys do it better?”

I shake my head and yell back, “Got a boyfriend!”
A boyfriend I need to call
.

“All right, all right,” I hear. “Say hi to Toto for me!”

I’m from Texas, not Kansas, I think as I hurry back down the rest of the stairs, put more money on my card, and go back through the turnstile.

My second-grade teacher, Miss Georgie, always told us, “If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop digging.” I reckon this is good advice for now. I ask a young man in a navy suit with a periwinkle tie how to get back to Manhattan just to make sure.

“This train,” he says and points into the tunnel where I can see an incoming train’s light in the distance. Talk about a light at the end of a tunnel.

“Thank you.” Once I’m on the train, I start to breathe again.

After a couple of minutes, the subway comes to a halting, grinding stop in the dark tunnel. No one appears extremely surprised. Then, people start to groan and look at their watches. A couple more minutes pass, and people start muttering swearwords under their breath.

Just as I go to ask someone what’s going on, the loudspeaker comes on: “Hello. We apologize for the inconvenience. Due to repair work at the Thirty-Third Street station, we’re experiencing delays. An announcement will be made when we know more. Thank you for your patience.”

Everyone groans and moans some more. I sigh and look at my watch. I still have some time, so I try not to have a conniption fit. I sit down between a kid with a skateboard and backpack and an elderly woman with a mini shopping cart, and I pull out my sketchbook. I came here to do art, so I’ll do art.

I’m so absorbed by sketching the woman’s beautiful red oriental-print purse that I forget that we’re still not moving and that I’m getting closer to being late. Just as I look at my watch and realize that I now only have thirty minutes left before class, the subway takes off again. We pass Christopher Street, where I started, and two stops later we arrive at Fourteenth Street. I jump out of the subway car and race up the upstairs. Once I’m outside, it almost feels like coming home again and I take a breath of relief.

I pull out Mrs. Corcoran’s map and start heading toward Parsons. When I arrive at the school, with its big glass windows, I smile. I no longer feel as skittish as a long-tailed cat in a room of rockers. Everything will be okay. I even have time to find a bathroom and reapply my makeup, which melted during what I’ve decided to call “The Subway Incident” when I tell the story.

I text Corrinne that I made it to school and that I miss her. I omit the going-to-New-Jersey part of my day.

I find room 302 easily. When I open the door, I find a small classroom with stadium seating. There are four rows of desks, each one five across. They are all full except one seat in the center of the first row. The room’s silent. Most of the kids look around my age, and all of them, particularly the two that are wearing toboggan hats in summer, would probably fit Corrinne’s “artsy” description. There are definitely no preppy pastels here. The class is evenly divided between girls and boys.

Out of nowhere, I’m suddenly disappointed that I don’t spot Art Boy. Until now, I didn’t even realize that I’d be secretly hoping the boy I met at MoMA would be in my summer program. On top of being a little surprised at myself, I know that would be a ridiculous coincidence in a city of millions, but I’m a dreamer at my core.

Perhaps I’m surveying the crowd a little too closely because I then feel everyone’s eyes on me—including Iona’s, who I spot sitting in a middle row. I take my seat quickly.

Everyone’s silent as we wait for class to begin. I find myself thinking how I got from Broken Spoke’s art room, which is a converted faculty lounge, to this beautiful, modern space at one of the best art schools in the world. Only two months ago attending this school was just a card in my deck of dreams, and now it’s my reality.

“Guess what?” I ask Hands. It’s early spring; we’re at a field party, sitting in the bed of Yellow Submarine. The night cackles with laughter and the sparks from a bonfire.

“Chicken butt?” Hands responds as he fingers his state championship ring. I don’t laugh. Sometimes, I wonder if he and Kiki are on the same grade level for humor.

“No, listen,” I demand. “This is important.”

Hands puts his arm around me tightly. “I’m all yours,” he declares and gives me a squeeze.

“I’m applying to art school in New York for this summer. Mrs. Corcoran heard about this program, and she told me that she’d sponsor me if I got in,” I confess.

“That’s great, Kitsy,” Hands says. “I know you have talent. All the guys are still talking about how good the girls looked at the spring fling. I didn’t tell them why, but I know it’s because you did everyone’s makeup. None of those girls usually look that good. Well, besides you, of course.”

“It’s not a school for makeup,” I mutter defensively, pulling away from him. I love doing makeup, but I don’t want to be the next Bobbi Brown. I want to be the next Georgia O’Keeffe.

“I didn’t say it that it was beauty school,” Hands says gently, and I relax. “You deserve a chance at real art school.”

“I have to submit a recent work with my application, and I’m freaking out,” I admit. “I can’t exactly send in before-and-after headshots from prom for my portfolio. All of my sketches are either of the Spoke or are sketches of famous paintings. How am I going to compete with the kids who live in New York and attend real art classes?”

“You have no idea how good the competition is, Kitsy. All you can do is try your best with what you have. When you go into a cheer competition, are you worried about how you’re going to do or how the other teams are going to do?”

Sometimes, I really think Hands should go into coaching. He’s got that motivational-speaker thing down. It’s a big part of why I love him. He’s like inspiration in a can.

“I’m thinking about how well I can do,” I answer.

“Because that’s all you can control,” he says, and I nod my head in agreement.

Before cheer competitions, we always chant: “Nobody can fly like a Mockingbird.” I need to remember that no one can fly like Kitsy, either.

Bubby’s voice booms toward us from near the campfire. “C’mon, lovebirds, you’ve dated since you were five. Why don’t you two take a timeout from each other to be social with your friends?”

I motion for Hands to go, and reluctantly he does.

There’s a little bit of daylight lingering, so I decide to pull out a sketchbook from my pocketbook, which is bursting with my pom-poms, a roll of toilet paper, and who knows what else. Looking around, I settle on sketching the outline of an old oak tree. Do the best with what you have.

A sixty-something man with a long gray ponytail in a red-print Hawaiian T-shirt saunters into the room and brings me back to the present.

“Good morning. As you all must know,” he says, and puts his briefcase on the front table, “I’m Professor Paul Picasso, your instructor. When your last name is Picasso, you’re immediately destined to teach art rather than be a famous artist because there can be only one Picasso. My only hope for immortality is that one of you will make an important contribution to the art world. And by the art world, I don’t mean commercials or Pixar but the
real art world
.”

I look around the room to try to gauge other people’s reactions, but everyone’s eyes remain glued on Professor Picasso. What’s so wrong with Pixar? I want to ask. And what does the real art world mean? Two minutes in, and I’m lost—for the second time today! But if I can find my way to New York City, I’ve got to believe I can navigate this class.

“
And
, we
won’t
be doing introductions. This isn’t summer camp. You’re not here to make s’mores or friendship bracelets. You’ll be making art—and not arts and crafts—or at least, that’s the hope. You all submitted a piece of work with your application, and the admissions committee selected this class based on what they saw. Some of you have raw talent while others of you have clearly studied art. It doesn’t matter who’s who, all that matters is what you do with it from here on out. Come every day ready to learn, and try not to waste your time or your parents’ money.”

Or even worse, waste your best friend’s parents’ money. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious. Maybe I don’t belong here. Maybe I belong back in the Spoke with Madame Williams, who tells everyone that his or her work is a masterpiece. It’s cozy back there; it’s like a cocoon of compliments. But the thing is, I don’t want to be comfortable. I want to be challenged and that’s why I’m here.

“And now, without further ado,” Professor Picasso continues, “I’ll explain the structure of our course. We have class every day from nine in the morning to four in the afternoon. There will be a break for lunch at noon. Just so you know, I think that punctuality is next to godliness. For the first three weeks, we’ll work on developing skills in three separate disciplines. There will be a figurative drawing week, a clay week, and a photography week. The final week will be less structured, so you can work on portfolios. Children, it’s now time to get started.”

Professor Picasso opens the door. Another man, who’s tall but very round in the middle, saunters in. He’s wearing only a black terry cloth robe, and he casually takes it off to reveal he’s wearing . . . absolutely nothing.

“Obviously, as you now see, we’re starting figurative drawing today. Please begin to sketch our model. And remember, art feels no shame. Let’s be mature about this.”

I feel my face go completely white.

Next to me, there’s a guy wearing black jeans, a white T-shirt, and coral-framed glasses. He looks over at me and mouths, “Hot.”

I laugh on reflex, and then quickly cover my mouth before anyone realizes I’m the immature one in the room.

I’m exhausted after sketching the male naked form for two hours, and I’ve sweated through my top despite the fact that the AC was blasting the entire time. A front row seat is usually a good thing in my book, since teachers associate proximity to the front with a desire to learn. But today I would’ve preferred a seat a few rows back, so I wouldn’t have a magnified view of our model
and
so I could figure out my classmates.

After our lunch break, while we wait for the model to return, Professor Picasso explains why he picked a “robust” model that carries twenty-five extra pounds at his waist.

“It’s a lot harder to sketch fat people. Always choose
fuller
figurative drawing models because it will strengthen your skills. Anyone who can draw a stick figure can sketch a Kate Moss wannabe,” he tells us. I see heads nodding in agreement.

When our model returns, I find myself wondering how he does it—how he is so okay with being so exposed. Alone in NYC (and Jersey) for only a few hours, I feel more than ever that vulnerability is a pretty scary thing. You can feel naked in a lot of different ways. With each line of my pencil, I feel as if I, too, am disrobing.